


Wonders Never Cease

by menel



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Confessions, Djinni & Genies, Emotional Manipulation, Fighting As Foreplay, Identity Reveal, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Deals, Memory Magic, Sacrifice, Second Chances, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Starting Over, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-07 13:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17367128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/pseuds/menel
Summary: "Magic costs," the djinn said. "What is his life worth to you?""Everything," Frank replied.Or, the story in which Frank Castle made a deal with a djinn to save Matt Murdock's life.





	1. It Started with a Wish

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is weird. Really weird. This is not only my first attempt at this pairing, but is an example of what happens when you read too much _Constantine_ (then watch _City of Demons_ – _so good_ ), but are also immersed in the world of _Daredevil_. This is what you end up with, a weird hybrid that shouldn’t exist in any universe. But does. Because.
> 
> Also, I'm wiffly waffly about the timeline. Don't think too hard about it. :)

Magic. 

Frank Castle did not believe in magic. He didn’t believe in God. At least, not anymore. Even in a world where he accepted superhuman senses, supersoldier serums, and aliens ripping portals open in the sky – he could still reason that those things were based on science. He could even rationalize those mystical things that he didn’t understand were just – what was that saying? Magic was the name given to things that science couldn’t explain…yet. 

But magic? Not the illusionists pulling-rabbits-out-of-top-hats or card sharks with their fancy tricks, but _actual_ magic? Nah. 

That had been Frank’s stance on the matter until the day he ran into a djinn. The guy looked more like an old, wizened New York cabbie with a turban to Frank, but he claimed to be a djinn. New York cabbies were their own species. Who was Frank to argue?

Everything about that encounter was tinged with the surreal now, but Frank recalled it with perfect clarity. He had been patrolling the streets that night. So had Red. (Red patrolled the streets every night.) Vaguely, Frank had been aware that Red was tracking the Triads as a favor to some kid with a special fist ( _and wasn’t that fist another example of magic?_ Frank’s unconscious wondered). They rarely worked together, he and Red. And whenever they did, it put a strain on their personal relationship. Frank liked to keep those spheres separate as much as possible. Red felt the same way. Oh, they’d influenced each other, all right; changed, maybe even softened some of their rougher edges. Professionally, he and Red understood each other better, but that understanding still couldn’t be called peaceable. Red didn’t sermonize anymore, and Frank would no longer throw out those half-measure taunts. Didn’t mean they saw eye-to-eye. They both understood that wasn’t ever gonna happen. (And if Frank grudgingly thought that sometimes half-measures were all that were needed, he wasn’t going to admit that out loud, and certainly not to Red. And if Red was sometimes…thankful? Grateful? No, _relieved_ …that Frank was around to pull the trigger so that he would never have to cross that line…well, Frank wasn’t going to make Red admit that out loud either.) But since they’d become bed buddies, Frank had made it one of his personal missions that Red would never have to cross that line. No matter how bad things got (and it got bad _plenty_ ), it would never become that _one bad day_. That was their secret, why what they had worked at all. They defined each other’s limits, defined their sense of self.

Until the night they’d walked into more than they could handle on their own. So, they’d teamed up – one of those rare and reluctant affairs. They hadn’t been blindsided per se – Frank was too much of a tactician for that and Red could improvise like nobody’s business. But still, it had been a lot of weaponry (military-grade) and a lot of trained men. They’d done their damage, ground that operation to a halt (at least temporarily) but it was when they had been making their exit that it happened. 

Red and those freaky senses of his, knew that a bullet had been headed straight for Frank, an armor-piercing round that would have cut through Frank’s kevlar like butter. So, the idiot had done one of those acrobatic flips to push Frank out of the way and had taken the bullet himself. Frank had dived into a roll from Red’s momentum and he’d come up firing, gunning down the assholes that had tried to kill them. 

It was over in a matter of seconds. 

But that had been enough time for Frank to assess the damage. He didn’t need super senses to know that the hit was a bad one; that Matt would bleed out if something wasn’t done. Immediately. 

By some miracle, they hadn’t been on a roof, so Frank had dragged Matt out onto the street and hailed the first cab that had appeared. (The Punisher and Daredevil in a fucking cab!) 

“Metro General,” Frank had told the cabbie, which was the nearest hospital in the area. It was a blessing and a curse that Matt no longer wore the suit: a blessing that he could be wheeled into the ER as a blind man with a gunshot wound, but more of a curse because while the suit wouldn’t have saved Matt completely, he also wouldn’t have been at death’s door.

Even delirious from blood loss and in clear pain, Matt had waved a hand at him. “No hospitals,” he’d said weakly. 

“Ain’t got no choice this time,” Frank had told him, keeping pressure on the wound. Blood was seeping through his hands, pooling in the cab’s back seat. Matt must’ve known he was dying. 

Frank also knew what death smelled like, and everything he’d held back for months broke like a dam: the words he’d never said, the things he’d never done, the _feelings_ he’d sworn no longer existed, the part of himself that he’d (almost) convinced himself was dead. 

It all came out.

But it was too late, too late for any of that. And Matty was only half-conscious, too out of it for those heightened senses of his to read everything that Frank had hid for months: to hear the panic in Frank’s heartbeat, the thundering of his pulse, the heat of his blood. Because Frank still couldn’t _say_ what mattered. He’d trusted Matt to know, to figure it out eventually (probably before Frank figured it out himself), but sometimes you had to say the words too. He was so focused on the other man that it took him a moment to realize that the cab driver was no longer headed in the right direction; that he had, in fact, pulled into an alley. 

“The hell are you doing!” Frank yelled at the man. “I told you, Metro General!”

Frank’s fury was a thing to behold, but the cabbie was unperturbed, turning around in his seat to look at Frank with calm eyes. 

“Your friend won’t make it to Metro General,” the cabbie said. 

Frank almost reached through the open glass window to grab the other man’s shirt. “He won’t if you keep yakkin’ like this ‘stead of drivin’,” he said, lifting one of his guns. 

“I can help him,” the cabbie continued, as though Frank hadn’t just threatened his life. 

“You a doctor?”

“No, I’m a djinn.” 

Frank barked out a cruel laugh. The universe was fucking with him at the worst possible time. 

“Get out,” Frank snarled, cocking his gun at the other man. “I’ll drive.” 

The cabbie didn’t budge. 

Frank was about to open his door and haul the other man out of his seat when the interior of the front of the cab filled with a preternatural green light. 

“I can help him,” the cabbie said again. “You don’t want him to die, do you?” 

Frank’s hand stilled on the door handle. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew that the light emanating from the cabbie’s hand wasn’t _natural_. He gritted his teeth. The universe was really fucking with him. 

“What do you need?” he bit out before he could change his mind. 

“Magic costs,” the djinn replied. “What is his life worth to you?” 

“Everything.”

* * * * *

So, Frank had struck a deal with a djinn, and the djinn had granted his ‘wish.’ It turned out that djinns didn’t really grant wishes, not the way _Aladdin_ would have you believe. This djinn was no Robin Williams, that’s for sure. (Frank pushed to the back of his mind how _Aladdin_ had been his kids’ favorite Disney film. The universe was so fucking with him.) He’d half expected the djinn to ask for his soul (he wasn’t certain he had one to give, or if he did, it surely belonged to the Devil) or to ask for Matt’s soul (deal over), but the djinn wasn’t in the soul trading business. The creature had actually laughed at him. “Wrong mythology,” the creature had said. (Better than “Wrong religion.”)

The djinn didn’t want their souls, but he needed to feed on something precious to them, something that evoked strong feelings. The stronger the feelings – whether of rage or love or joy – the happier he was. So the djinn asked for memories and Frank gave that up. The djinn needed more juice to power his spell so he asked for something else, and Frank gave that up too, even if a voice reminded him that these things weren’t actually _his_ to give. (Who was making the sacrifice here?) Frank told that voice to go to hell. If this was what it took to keep Matt alive, then no sacrifice was too great. Frank had resigned himself to keep losing and losing in this life. That was why he did what he did. He had nothing left to lose, that is, until Matt came along and somehow became a fixture in his life. Just this once, Frank wasn’t going to lose. 

Except, he sort of did.

Frank was reminded of this as he perched on a rooftop three buildings away from Matt’s office. He knew he was well within Matt’s radar, but since Matt wasn’t looking for him, he hoped he was just another heartbeat in Hell’s Kitchen, one that wouldn’t catch the Devil’s attention. Matt was working late again. He did that more frequently these days, now that he no longer patrolled the streets. (Frank, on the other hand, felt like he had to compensate. Like he had to take down _more_ criminals since the Devil was no longer there to clean up his beloved city. He owed it to Red, which would also explain why he didn’t kill as many of those scumbags as he normally would’ve because that wouldn’t have pleased Red at all. He was leaning more towards Red’s philosophy, but the joke was on him since he couldn’t share that with Red anymore. At least that spared him all of Red’s merciless teasing, and that sometimes made Frank smile.)

Because what Frank had given up on behalf of Matt to save Matt’s life were his memories of Daredevil. The djinn had assured him that Matt would only have a vague impression of being the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, like a distant former life. After all, the djinn couldn’t erase all the news reports or social media about Daredevil, just the memories, and, according to him, Matt’s desire to be Daredevil. Frank wasn’t so sure about the last part. Maybe the djinn could take away the memories; maybe Matt wouldn’t _remember_ donning the suit and his crime fighting, but the _desire_? That seemed wrong. The Devil was in Matt, was a part of him. Maybe the djinn was ripping out a piece of Matt’s soul after all. 

Frank remembered when Matt had first told him about becoming Daredevil. It had been in bed (because confessions came more freely in bed, usually after sex, always after fighting, and always at night. Not that the cover of darkness mattered to Matt, but Frank found the night comforting, and he liked to think that Matt did too. The night freed them both.) Matt had listened to a father enter his daughter’s room every night for a week until he couldn’t take it anymore. On the eighth night, he’d waited for the man on the abandoned train tracks that he passed by to get home and given him the beating of his life. That man had been laid up in the hospital for nearly two months recovering from those injuries. But when he’d finally made it home, that father had never entered his daughter’s room again. Some part of Frank was waiting for that moment, the moment when Matt could no longer take the suffering that he heard all around him. The Devil would reach his breaking point. The djinn couldn’t take that away.

A month passed. Then two. Then three. Frank kept his distance. He didn’t stalk Matt every day. After all, he had bills to pay, too. But he made sure to check on Matt several times a week. Sometimes during his lunch break (the construction site was near enough), almost always before he went out at night. Matt seemed happy enough. He was certainly busy enough. Most of the cases he took on were pro bono, but occasionally he’d take on a paying client (because he had bills to pay, too). On rare occasions, Frank would allow himself to sit in the back of a courtroom just so he could hear Matt’s voice. He was confident that his heartbeat would just be another heartbeat in a crowded courtroom. Nothing Matt would notice…or remember.

See, the terrible thing was Matt didn’t remember him either. The extra juice the djinn had needed to push the spell through? It wasn’t just Matt’s memories of Daredevil that the djinn had fed upon; Frank had given up Matt’s memories of _him_ as well. Frank was a pragmatic man. He’d known from the start that whatever fragile balance he’d achieved with the altar boy wasn’t going to last. Every moment they’d had was borrowed time. But if someone had told Frank that it would end because a djinn would steal Matt’s memories of him in order to save Matt’s life, Frank would’ve laughed long and hard in that person’s face. Turned out the joke was on Frank all along.

Matt still trained, though. He spent his weekends in Fogwell’s gym. He had a punching bag installed in his living room. Sometimes Frank watched through his scope as Matt ran through his forms on the roof of his building at night. 

Four months passed. 

Five. 

Six. 

Matt never put on the mask.


	2. Have We Met Before?

Frank knew the universe was still fucking with him. How did he know this? Because after six months on the job, he’d somehow been voted as a union representative. A fucking _union_ representative. Frank kept to himself, kept a low profile. Maybe he wasn’t quite as anti-social as he’d been before (didn’t have a reputation as a gimp this time), but he sure as hell wasn’t anybody’s best friend. How could he be a _union_ representative? No way was Frank going to accept the position, until he heard an interesting proposition.

Word on the grapevine was that the conglomerate they were working for was going to sue them. At first, Frank thought he’d heard that backwards. Unions were there to protect workers’ rights. _They_ were the ones who were supposed to sue rotten corporations, not the other way around. But it turned out that the union he’d been roped into might’ve some rotten apples of its own, overcharging for certain services and – in the words of one of the company employees – “robbing us blind.” Frank had heard some of the examples: menial tasks such as fetching coffee and snacks for workers in higher floors being given to veteran journeymen instead of junior apprentices. Those veteran journeymen were being paid almost seventy dollars an hour, including benefits. That figure went up to over ninety dollars with overtime. That was more godamn money than Frank made. So yeah, maybe they did deserve to get sued. The thing was, they weren’t _all_ involved in the corruption scam. The project was a big one, spanning over five sites. Each site had its own independent management. Maybe the other sites were scamming Related Corporation blind, but Frank was pretty sure his bosses were standup guys. It also explained why his group wanted to break off from the other branches of the project. If they could show that they’d been honest in their dealings with Related Corporation, then they wouldn’t be included in the lawsuit and that would be a major win.

Normally, Frank wouldn’t have given a shit about the legal crap. He was used to being his own judge, jury and executioner. He wouldn’t have stuck around for so long if it hadn’t been for the convenience, the convenience of being near Matt, of being able to keep an eye on him. He preferred moving around. He had multiple hideouts. But the godamn altar boy was cramping his style and Matt didn’t even know it. So, Frank grudgingly went to one of the union meetings of his chapter, set on telling them that he wouldn’t accept the post when Matt Murdock’s name came up. Frank almost choked on his coffee.

Someone had gotten the bright idea of looking for legal representation so that they’d be covered, both against Related Corporation and against the other chapters of their union that were going to be sued. It was a smart move. Now they were looking for a lawyer and Murdock’s name was at the top of the list. Murdock had developed something of a reputation since he and Nelson had split. 

“He’s good,” Tony said. “Likes to stand up for the little guy. I reckon this is just the sort of case he’d take.” 

Privately, Frank agreed, but he continued to drink his coffee. 

“I hear he does a lot of pro bono work,” someone else said. “Maybe he’ll even do it for free.” 

“We ain’t no charity case,” Phil, the head of the chapter, barked. “We can pay ‘im. Whaddya think, Pete?”

Frank almost choked on his coffee again. So much for stayin’ out of the conversation. He gulped down the last of the dregs, crumpled the cup and tossed it into the wastebasket before he spoke. He was going by the name Pete Castiglione now. 

“Sounds like a plan to me,” he told Phil. 

“Good,” Phil agreed. “Drop by his office tomorrow and set up a meeting.” 

“What? Why me?” 

“Why not you?” 

“I ain’t got no head for the law.” 

“Then you’re in the same boat as the rest of us,” Phil said. “That’s why we wanna hire a _lawyer_.” 

“And you’re not worried this Murdock fellow’s gonna run circles around me?” 

Phil scoffed. “You heard Tony. Murdock likes to stand up for the little guy.”

Frank quit his bitchin’ then. It’d all been just for show anyway. Phil had saved him the trouble. Frank would’ve _volunteered_ to talk with Matt if Phil hadn’t assigned him the job. The universe may have been fucking with him, but Frank had enough sense not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

* * * * *

_Set up a meeting._ Those had been Phil’s exact words. Frank could do that. It wasn’t brain surgery and he wasn’t expected to know the legal mumbo jumbo. A quick meet and greet. It was an excuse to talk to Matt again, to see the Devil up close. He could do that.

Still, his palms were uncharacteristically sweaty when he turned up at Murdock’s law office. Sweaty enough that he wiped them down on his jeans. Frank knew that Matt didn’t have a secretary. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was Matt’s stubborn pride to show everyone that he didn’t need any help. Asking for assistance had always been one of Red’s problems, not that Frank was any better in that department.

He’d timed his visit to shortly before lunch. He supposed he could’ve just called, but Murdock was used to walk-ins. (And calling would’ve defeated the point.) When he walked into the waiting room, there was only one other client there, an Hispanic woman with a basket of fruits on her lap. She gave Frank a friendly smile as he took the seat next to her. Frank nodded in return, not quite sure if the expression on his face qualified as a ‘smile.’ He discreetly gave the fruit basket a sidelong glance. Mangos. Papaya. Bananas. A couple of oranges. Some apples. At least Matt’s pro bono clients kept him fed. Frank remembered a lot of bare cupboards and a fridge that was usually empty. Matt had never been great with groceries. He ate fairly healthy though, when he remembered to eat, which wasn’t a surprise. Lots of organic stuff that Frank wasn’t entirely sure how Matt could afford. He also remembered how Matt could make the perfect egg. Frank had never tasted better and he prided himself on being good with eggs.

The door to Murdock’s office opened and with it came the whiff of kimchi. Matt was taking turns shaking the hands of an elderly Korean couple and the young woman who accompanied them, probably their daughter. Farewells done, Matt turned in the direction of his waiting clients. 

“Mrs. Gomez?” he said. “Please come inside.” 

Frank appraised the other man. He didn’t even pretend not to be staring, knowing full well that Matt’s senses were picking him apart, had probably been picking him apart since he stepped foot in the waiting room. He had nothing to hide. He was Pete Castiglione now. (That wasn’t actually true. Matt had once told him that he perpetually smelled of ammo and gun oil. Frank couldn’t wash that scent away, no matter how hard he scrubbed. He wondered now what Matt thought of that, of the smell of a potentially violent man, someone used to handling guns and weaponry, sitting in his office.) 

Beside Frank, Mrs. Gomez got to her feet, fruit basket in her arms. Frank automatically grasped her elbow when she stood, worried that she might tip over. 

“ _Gracias, senor_ ,” Mrs. Gomez said.

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Frank replied. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw how Matt’s head lifted at the gesture, and he curbed a smile. Seemed like he’d made a good impression after all.

* * * * *

Frank waited outside Matt’s office as the hands on the wall clock ticked closer to noon. He’d timed it just right. Mrs. Gomez would be wrapping up her appointment. That would leave four, maybe five minutes to have a quick chat, set up that meeting Phil wanted. Just a quick chat. He may have wanted to see Matt but anything more than a quick chat seemed dangerous to Frank. He couldn’t say why; it was just something he knew.

The door to the office opened again, and Frank stood up instinctively. The scene repeated itself with Matt graciously showing Mrs. Gomez out, this time speaking in Spanish. Frank filed that detail away. Through the open door, he could see the fruit basket perched on Matt’s desk. Mrs. Gomez smiled at him again on the way out, and Frank nodded at her. 

When he and Matt were finally alone, Frank bit the bullet and stepped forward. 

“Mr. Murdock,” he said. “I’m Pete Castiglione. I was just hoping for a couple of minutes to set up a meeting for my group.” 

Matt held out his hand. Frank hesitated only for a second before reaching out and shaking Matt’s hand firmly. He hadn’t expect sparks to fly or some shit like that, but the contact was still nice. Reassuring. He noted the lack of bruises on Matt’s knuckles.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Castiglione,” Matt said. “And who is your group?” 

“Construction Laborers Union,” Frank replied. 

“Ah,” Matt said, the name registering with him. “You’re handling the Related Corporation project.” 

“You’ve heard of it?” Frank said, though he wasn’t really surprised. 

“It’s one of the biggest construction projects in the city,” Matt replied. 

Frank nodded. “Yeah, well,” he said, looking down at his feet. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.” 

“It always is,” Matt agreed. “Why don’t you tell me about it over lunch?” 

Frank started. “Nah,” he said, quickly shaking his head. “Don’t want to intrude on your lunch break.” 

“You do eat, don’t you?” 

Frank was sure he was looking at the other man in shock. The asshole was _flirting_ with him. What the hell kinds of signals were Matt’s super senses picking up?!

“Yeah, but…I'm not…I’m just here to make an appointment. Don’t know anything about the case.” 

“You must know something,” Matt pressed. “Otherwise why would your group send you here?”

Frank shook his head. “Nope,” he countered. “Dumb as a rock. Just the messenger boy.” Christ, was he flirting _back?_

Apparently, Matt didn’t think so because he flashed Frank a rueful smile (which Frank’s heart absolutely did not stutter at). “Well, that’s the firmest rejection I’ve heard in a while,” he said. He turned to lock his door. 

“It’s not like that,” Frank said, before he could stop himself. Idiot. 

With the key still in its lock, Matt turned his head back in Frank’s direction. “No?” he questioned. 

“No,” Frank said. “You surprised me is all. You always ask strangers to lunch?” 

“First time,” Matt admitted. “But I have a feeling about you.” Frank wondered what feeling the other man could possibly have with the smell of ammo and gun oil and concrete. Matt locked his door, facing Frank again. “Is that a ‘yes’ to lunch then?” 

“Only got an hour,” Frank said, as if that were an excuse. 

“I’m on the clock, too,” Matt replied, a faint half smile on his face. 

Frank remembered clearly how sharp that smile could slice beneath the mask, how bloody and beautiful and terrible the Devil was. He pushed those thoughts aside. 

“Shall we?” Matt offered, gesturing towards the main door and the wider world beyond.

Frank remained silent, considering the offer while he calmed his breathing and his heart. “Yeah, all right,” he agreed, after a long moment. 

He knew as soon as the words were out of his mouth that they were a mistake. He should _not_ be having lunch with Matthew Murdock; that a whole hour in this man’s company would fuck with his ordered life, big time. But that was one of Frank’s problems. For all his deliberation and strategy and tactics, Matthew-fucking-Murdock challenged his common sense. 

As they walked down the narrow hallway of Murdock’s office building, Frank had to resist the urge to put his hand on the small of the other man’s back to guide him, knowing that Matt didn’t need it, but used to doing it for show. There was a difference in how Frank treated the other man when Matt was being Matt, or when he was being Red. And for the first time in a long time, Frank couldn’t do either.

* * * * *

Matt took them to the little diner around the corner from his office building. The place was nice, a lot more upscale than the diners Frank was used to. It had honest-to-god wood paneling, a rich auburn hue that played off of Matt’s dark auburn hair and red-tinted glasses in the natural light. If Frank hadn’t found the other man attractive before…

Frank was familiar with the diner, of course, having seen Matt eat there two or three times a week. Other times, Matt liked to go to the nearby park, eat lunch on a bench while throwing breadcrumbs to the pigeons. Occasionally, he ate in his office. It was a solitary existence. That, more than anything, was what had surprised Frank the most. He’d assumed that Matt would reconnect with the people he cared about and had cut out of his life: his former law partner, Franklin Nelson and Karen Page, whom Frank knew still harbored feelings for the altar boy. But Matt hadn’t done any of those things. It was as if he was still smarting from defeats he couldn’t remember, wounds that he didn’t understand. Frank understood. They were both damaged people. Maybe that’s what had brought them together. And now Matt was in some kind of limbo, and Frank was stuck right there with him.

“This is a fancy-pants place,” Frank said under his breath after their waitress, Agnes, had handed him the menu. Agnes greeted Matt cheerfully, poured their coffee and said she’d be back to take their order. Another booth was signaling her. 

“Wouldn’t know about that,” Matt said. 

_Liar_ , Frank thought, but it wasn’t mean-spirited. It’s not like Matt could dispute him without raising suspicions. Frank hadn’t really considered before how much Matt had had to hide of himself, what a daily struggle just being himself must be. No wonder the altar boy was so good at keeping secrets. 

“The prices are more than reasonable,” Matt continued, “and the food is good. I lucked out having this place so near the office.” 

Frank sort of grunted in reply, eyes still scanning the menu. He always went for the basics at new places. Agnes came back to their table and Frank ordered three eggs over easy, toast and a side of bacon. Matt had a BLT with a side salad. 

“Skip breakfast this morning?” Matt asked good-humoredly, when Agnes had gone again. 

“More like an all-day breakfast kind of guy,” Frank told him, feeling a slight twinge. The old Matt would’ve known that since he’d be the one cooking eggs for the both of them at two in the morning. 

“I can relate,” this Matt said.

Frank expected Matt to turn the conversation towards professional matters, but he didn’t. He made small talk instead, which Frank found both unsettling and a source of relief. (Frank didn’t do small talk, and certainly never with the altar boy.) It was awkward at first, until Matt stumbled on the topic of dogs. That eased Frank some, especially when he began talking about the shelter where he did volunteer work. He was careful, though, with the personal details that he let slip through. He couldn’t forget that he was sitting in front of a human lie detector. Matt could not only tell when someone was lying; he could also tell when someone was holding back, and Frank was holding back _plenty_. He hoped Matt would chalk that up to general wariness. The fact that Frank wasn’t a trusting individual came across pretty clearly to everyone who dealt with him. Not that Matt was being an open book either. Frank was silently impressed that the other man could seem so warm and friendly, and yet revealed so little about himself. _Neat trick for a lawyer_ , Frank thought. No wonder Matt’s clients put their trust in him. Because whatever else Frank thought about the law and how it had failed him, Matt was as compassionate and genuine as lawyers came. He made it easy to trust him.

Towards the end of the hour, Matt did steer the conversation to the professional side. Frank explained what little he could about how a lawsuit was looming on the horizon, and how their group wanted to protect themselves. 

“Challenging,” Matt noted, stirring his coffee. (Black, Frank remembered. They both took their coffee black.) “I’d need to see your union’s by-laws. It’s rare that one chapter can break off from the others. It defeats the point of being part of a union.” 

“So, you’ll take the case?” Frank asked. 

Matt flashed him another one of those boyish smiles. “It intrigues me,” he admitted. “But I’d still have to know more. Will you be at the meeting with Phil?” 

Frank’s eyes snapped to Matt’s face. “Dunno,” he said, truthfully. “I s’ppose if Phil wants me there. Don’t know how much help I can be.”

“But you’re one of the union reps?” 

Frank laughed outright at that. “Yeah, well, that’s more like a mistake. I was plannin’ on stepping down before I got roped into this,” he explained. 

“And now?” 

“Dunno,” Frank said again, wondering what his heartbeat was telling the other man. “Maybe I’ll stick around.” 

“I hope you do. I think you’d make a good rep, a good liaison.” 

Frank grinned. Even he could hear the humor in his voice when he said, “You sussed that out in an hour?” 

Matt’s smile was sharp, reminding Frank too much of the Devil. “I can suss out a lot in an hour,” Matt told him, voice pitched a little lower. The sound almost went straight to Frank’s cock. Now _that_ was the voice he remembered.


	3. Rewind

Frank did end up going to the meeting with Phil that he’d set up for later in the week. Phil didn’t make it sound like he had a choice anyway, and Frank made the same half-hearted protest as before. He kept his mouth shut for pretty much the entire meeting, but listened attentively. He was suddenly a lot more invested in whatever legal proceedings were happening. At the end of it, Murdock suggested a liaison with their chapter of the union to keep them abreast of his progress. It sounded like work to Frank, yet he wasn’t all that surprised when Murdock suggested that he be the liaison. Murdock simply said that Frank (or ‘Pete’ as everyone knew him) seemed like someone he could work with. Phil liked the idea and when Frank didn’t object, the matter was settled.

Frank stayed behind when their little group disbanded, presumably so that he and Murdock could set up some sort of schedule. It was getting late. Their meeting had been set for after hours so that it wouldn’t disrupt construction. They were Murdock’s last clients of the day. 

“Good of you to accommodate us after work,” Frank said, watching as Murdock organized some files and placed them in his bag. 

“Not a problem,” Matt replied. “It was convenient for me as well.” He paused, apparently finished packing. Frank felt a bit of wariness at the sharp smile that flashed across Matt’s features. “Dinner?” Matt suggested. 

“We starting work already?” Frank asked in return. “Or did you just ask me out on a date?”

Matt laughed and Frank’s heart skipped at the sound. He hadn’t heard Matt laugh enough, not the way he laughed around his friends and it lightened something in Frank to hear Matt laugh now, to know that he…somehow…had been the cause of it. 

“Since you asked,” Matt began, a little teasingly. “I thought we could have weekly meetings. Working lunch meetings,” he added. “If you’re not opposed to the idea. As for tonight…” he trailed off thoughtfully. “I’d like for it to be a date,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t have to be. It could be just dinner.” 

“Just dinner,” Frank repeated.

The smile was back, but softer around the edges and so genuine that it made Frank’s heart ache. “Just dinner,” Matt said again. “If that’s what you want.”

Frank thought about it, and with those senses of his, Matt could probably hear the gears grinding in Frank’s brain. It seemed too soon to be going on a date, even though Frank wanted to. Badly. A real date. The idea was so foreign to him. He hadn’t been on a date since…well…since Maria. And he’d never been on a date with _Matt_. That hadn’t been in the realm of possibility before. What they’d had was some weird, clandestine, frenemies-with-benefits shit.

“Is it wise to date one of your clients?” Frank asked, as a stalling tactic. 

“Not wise at all,” Matt replied. “Morally and ethically ambiguous at best. But I keep getting this feeling about you, and I don’t ignore my instincts.”

When Frank didn’t say anything else, Matt decided to take a different track. “How about this?” he suggested. “We have dinner tonight. No expectations. Just dinner. And if you want to pursue something more in the future, the offer remains on the table.” 

Still Frank hesitated, eventually shaking his head. “Is that fancy lawyer negotiating?” he asked. 

“Is it working?” 

Frank found himself nodding, knowing that Matt could sense the motion even though his verbal response was slower to come. “Yeah,” he said, dragging the word out. “It is.” 

“Good,” Matt said.

* * * * *

Dinner was just dinner, but it was more relaxed than their previous lunch had been. It was a bad sign, Frank told himself. Two meals and Matt had already chipped through his defenses. A few more of these – even if Matt called them ‘working lunches’ – and Frank was gonna be up shit creek without a paddle. Nothing new there, except this time he wouldn’t be able to shoot his way out.

Truth was, those ‘weekly lunches’ became the highlight of Frank’s week. They met every Friday in the same diner around the corner from Matt’s office. They even sat in the same booth as that first meeting, so that Frank began to think of it as ‘their’ booth. Apparently, Agnes did too since she’d taken to reserving it for them without being asked. (Frank once came in just in time to watch Agnes shoo off another customer who’d tried to take their table. She’d turned around just as he was walking up to her and flashed him a warm smile. “Hello, Pete,” she’d said. “Table’s ready.” “Thank you, Agnes,” he’d told her sincerely, sliding into his normal spot. “Wouldn’t want to make Matt unhappy,” she’d replied with a wink. Frank had returned her smile. Matt had everyone under his thumb. When he wanted to, he played the wounded duck card well.)

But Frank never pushed for more than those lunches, and neither did Matt. Each lunch started the same way with Matt being professional and going through the case. More than once, Frank thought to volunteer his help. He didn’t know how Matt managed it all. It was a lot of work and they weren’t Matt’s only case, but probably one of the larger ones. Of course, Matt didn’t have Daredevil anymore to consume his nights, but still. It was a lot of work. 

“You ever think of getting a paralegal?” Frank asked one day. “Maybe an assistant?”

He’d half-expected Matt to take offence, but the other man just smiled and shook his head. “I’d have to pay a paralegal,” he reminded Frank. 

“How about a college intern?” Frank pursued. “You don’t pay them, right? You give them all that real world experience and shit. There’s gotta be some bleeding heart good Samaritans somewhere.” 

“You’d be surprised how rare those ‘bleeding heart good Samaritans’ are,” Matt joked back. 

“You turned out all right.” 

The smile on Matt’s face faded, and Frank wondered what the other man was thinking. Matt said, more seriously, “I’m really the exception rather than the rule.” 

Frank drank his coffee. _You have no idea, buddy_ , he thought.

Their lunches had been going on for a little over a month now. Five meetings, not including the initial lunch and the dinner that followed. Not that Frank was counting. He was absolutely _not_ counting. But Frank was always observant, and he’d always been good at picking up patterns in behavior. That’s why in his new interaction with Matt he’d also noticed some things. First of all, the lunches with Matt were the only way he could keep tabs on the other man now. Since reintroducing himself into Matt’s life as Pete Castiglione, he’d had to stop all other forms of stalking. Matt knew his voice, knew how he smelled. Hell, the other man probably recognized his heartbeat as well, could hear that heartbeat three blocks away. Out of all his super senses, it was Matt’s hearing that impressed Frank the most. The Devil heard everything. Put all that together made checking up on Matt too challenging, and raised the potential for lots of awkward questions.

So, these lunches were all Frank had now, and while it was nice just being in the other man’s company, he could tell when Matt’s attention altered. The case was becoming more complicated, so it was expected that Matt would spend more of the lunch briefing Frank. But once that briefing was over and the lunch shifted gears into their downtime, Frank also noticed a change. Matt was less flirtatious, less teasing. He was still warm and friendly, but if Frank had to give a name to it, he’d say that their relationship had shifted from the professional to the platonic and that alarmed Frank more than he cared to admit. Because while his mind boggled at the thought of calling Matthew-fucking-Murdock his _friend_ , it railed even more at the possibility that friendship and a (proper) working relationship was all they’d have. It was the smart move, the smart move, Frank kept telling himself. But, as usual with Matt Murdock, his common sense decided to take the day off. That was the only explanation he could come up with when one day he said: 

“You got plans this weekend?”

Matt paused, his fork, speared with a piece of apple pie, halfway between his mouth and his plate. He opted to eat the pie before he answered the question. Frank liked the thoughtful expression on the other man’s face, liked that he’d been able to surprise Mr. You-Can’t-Ambush-Me-With-These-Super-Senses. 

“No,” Matt said, after he’d swallowed his pie. “Not really. But I always go to the gym on Saturdays.” 

“Your workout day?” Frank questioned. 

“Something like that.” 

Matt looked amused, but the name ‘Fogwell’s’ was circling around Frank’s brain. He knew that was the gym Matt was referring to. And because Frank wasn’t a subtle man, he asked outright, “Which gym do you go to?”

Frank saw the slight hesitation in the other man, as if Matt were debating whether or not to tell the truth. Sometimes you didn’t need super senses to know when someone was lying.

“It’s not that sort of gym,” Matt said finally. “It’s an old boxing gym.” 

“You box?” Frank asked, with the appropriate level of surprise. 

“My dad was a boxer.” 

“It runs in the family then.” 

Frank expected the conversation to end there – Matt’s dad, too personal by their standards – and was thinking of another way to ask the other man out when…

“My dad didn’t want me to follow in his footsteps,” Matt explained. “He always encouraged me to study, to use my brain instead of my fists.” 

“He’d be proud of you,” Frank said, and he meant it.

Something in Matt’s face twisted. He looked almost…confused, but he nodded. “Yeah, I suppose he would,” he agreed. “But I still found my way into boxing. Maybe it does run in the family.” He flashed Frank one of those rueful smiles, but it was tinged with sadness. 

“I used to box,” Frank said. “Maybe I could join you on Saturday. Give you a sparring partner.” 

Matt’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “You want to hit a blind man?” There was a note of incredulity there, but it was accompanied by the teasing that Frank had missed.

“Maybe I’ll just let you hit me.” 

Matt laughed at that. “Is this your idea of foreplay, Pete?” he asked, and the flirtation was definitely back in his voice. 

“Maybe it could be a date.”

Matt stopped laughing suddenly, and Frank could practically see the other man’s senses zero in on him. “Could?” Matt said, his inflection turning the word into a question. 

Frank took a deep breath. When he exhaled, he felt steady. Sure. “Would,” he amended. “It would be a date.”

“And just when I’d given up all hope,” Matt said faintly. He was still teasing but Frank could hear the sincerity there. That sincerity is what had prodded Frank into action. He didn’t want Matt to lose interest in him, didn’t want them to fall into a particular pattern. 

“I guess I’m just full of surprises,” Frank told him. 

“You haven’t disappointed so far,” Matt agreed. 

Frank would wonder later just what Matt had meant by that statement.

* * * * *

On Saturday, they met at Fogwell’s gym. Matt had given Frank the address. Frank arrived early, expecting the place to be closed. It was. He was leaning against the brick wall of the building when Matt arrived, a duffel slung over his shoulder.

“Truth,” Matt said, his cane bumping Frank’s foot as he stopped in front of the other man.

There was absolutely no explanation as to how Matt had known that anyone was standing there, let alone Frank. It made Frank want to call him out. Normally, Matt’s blind ‘façade’ was perfect and his slip-ups nowhere as obvious. But Frank had noticed those slip-ups a bit more of late, like how Matt would reach for the saltshaker at lunch, even though the shaker wasn’t in its usual position and nobody had mentioned where it was. One time, when they had been getting up to leave, Agnes, harried and carrying a full tray of dirty dishes, had been about to back into Matt. But Matt had moved out of the way enough so that Agnes had only bumped him gently, instead of the full on crash/disaster it should’ve been. It was subtle, but Frank noticed these things. 

“This building belongs to a friend of my father’s,” Matt was saying now. “The gym’s been closed for years, but he lets me use it. We’re not talking state of the art equipment here, just the basics.”

Frank pushed himself off the wall as Matt went to the door, rummaging in his pocket for the keys. 

“Sounds like my kind of place,” Frank told him. 

Matt inclined his head in Frank’s direction. “It also means we’re going to be completely alone,” he added. 

“Then I guess this really is a date,” Frank returned, noting how Matt’s smile sliced that fraction sharper.

They warmed up together, went through the stretches, and then some exercises before they hit the bags. Frank watched as Matt expertly taped his hands. Frank went through the same process, but slower. He got a really good look at Matt’s body, not caring that the other man could feel Frank checking him out. Matt had nothing to be ashamed of and he must’ve felt the same way ‘cos he was wearing one of those black muscle shirts, not too tight but tight enough that Frank could see how fit he was. Frank appreciated the nice definition on his arms. It was smart, too. The shirt hid all the scars that Frank knew were lurking beneath, a brutal map on a beautiful body that Matt would have a tough time explaining.

They each worked their own bag. Frank enjoyed it. It’d been some time since he’d boxed properly and it felt good. His footwork felt sluggish to him, though. Especially next to Speedy Gonzales. At full strength in hand-to-hand combat, he knew that he was no match for the Devil. In the lockers that lined one wall of the gym, Frank knew that Matt kept other supplies there. He’d seen them: the ropes, which Matt used to tie intricate knots around his hands and forearms. Frank hadn’t known what that shit was. He’d had to look it up. Muay Thai. There were _arnis_ sticks here as well, and other weapons. It made him wonder how many fighting styles the Devil had. More than him, he knew that much.

At first, Matt seemed to be holding back in his work with the bag. But as he fell into his rhythm, those inhibitions stripped away, as though he’d forgotten that Frank was with him. At some point, Frank put aside his own workout to spot Matt. The elegance in the other man’s technique, the power and efficiency of his strikes was enough to turn Frank on. Even the smallest chemical changes in his body would betray him to Matt. He wondered what his arousal smelled like, faint as it was. By the time Matt finished with a roundhouse kick that would’ve knocked an opponent out cold, Frank had had enough. 

“You wanna get in the ring?” he said, stilling the bag with both hands.

Matt cocked his head in an action that was more familiar to Frank as the Devil than as Murdock. He seemed surprised, whether by the question or simply remembering Frank’s presence, Frank wasn’t sure. He looked contemplative. 

“I didn’t think you were serious about sparring,” he finally said.

“I didn’t think I was either,” Frank admitted. “But after seeing you handle yerself, I figure, why not?” 

Matt’s face broke into a cocky grin. “You’ll still be hitting a blind guy,” he reminded Frank. 

“I’m not so sure,” Frank replied. There was definitely a slight challenge in his voice. Intended or not, it had the desired effect. Matt tilted his head again in a way that Frank knew meant business. 

“All right,” the other man agreed. “Let’s spar.”

Frank had brought his own gloves. They were red, while Matt’s pair was black. He felt like they should swap and smiled inwardly at his private joke. “No head gear?” he asked instead, when they were both in the ring. 

Matt shook his head. “It breaks my concentration,” he explained. 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Frank muttered. 

“How about you?” 

“Nah,” Frank said. “Too many busted brain cells for it to make any difference.” 

The joke got a chuckle out of Matt, and Frank relished the sound. He enjoyed making the other man laugh, as alien as banter was to him.

They met in the center of the ring, bumped their gloves together and then the fight began. At first, they did nothing but circle each other, Frank taking note of Matt’s quick and light footwork. The Devil was a godamned ballerina and his body seemed to be thrumming with anticipation. When the waiting got to him, Frank finally said, “Are we gonna do this or what?” 

He spoke too soon. Matt stepped forward and launched a sequence of jabs and strikes. Frank was able to block the first two, but not the last three. Two direct hits to the body, one to the jaw. He tasted copper in his mouth. Matt still hit hard. Frank grinned. This was going to be good.

Matt stepped away, still light on his feet. It was Frank’s turn. He moved towards the other man, slower but a hard mass of solid muscle. Frank’s punches packed weight, if he could land them. That proved to be a challenge as Matt ducked and weaved, always showing off that speed and agility. 

“Are you sure you’re really blind?” Frank asked, when he found himself against the ropes after missing the other man…again. 

“Hit me and I’ll tell you my secret,” Matt said, and danced away.

“Smartass,” Frank muttered, pushing himself off the ropes. The problem was he needed to get close to be effective. Technically, he had the longer reach, but Matt kept him off balance, darting in and then withdrawing. It reminded Frank of their usual game of cat and mouse over the rooftops, except they were on a different playing field and the stakes were different (higher?) than before. 

Frank advanced. Matt didn't have a weak side as far as he could tell, but that wouldn’t stop Frank from trying to find one.

They went seven rounds with Frank keeping track of the time on the old wall clock. It amused him to think that Matt could hear the miniscule ticking of that clock, but Frank kept calling out the time anyway. When the eighth round rolled around, Frank could feel his frustration reaching a boiling point. If judges had been scoring the bout, Matt would’ve won every round handily. Sure, Frank got in a hit every now and then, but nothing that would’ve made a difference. Matt made solid contact each time, and Frank was going to have bruises the next day. Frank didn’t know whether it added insult to injury, but Matt was playing by the rules as well. This was strictly boxing, none of the MMA shit and those fancy kicks and moves that Matt could’ve used to bring him down. Not that Frank didn’t have any moves of his own, but again, hand-to-hand combat against Red without his guns had never ended well for him.

It was halfway through the eighth round that it happened. Frank connected with a hard right hook that threw Matt against the ropes. He pressed his advantage, while Matt raised his arms in a defensive position. But instead of attacking Matt’s body as the other man expected, Frank crowded into his space, pinning Matt down with his arms on either side of the other man. 

“You did that on purpose,” Frank accused. 

“Maybe I just wanted you to get close to me,” Matt smirked.

“There are other, less painful, ways,” Frank groused, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he pushed nearer, forcing Matt to drop his defensive posture. He felt Matt’s gloved hands land on his hips. Better. 

“You gonna tell me your secret now?” Frank pressed. “How come you can fight like this?”

Matt tilted his head as though he were appraising Frank. (And with those senses, he probably was.) “Chemical spill,” he said, almost too clinically. “When I was nine. I lost my sight but gained other things.” 

“Other things?” Frank prompted. 

“Heightened senses,” Matt said, again in that same matter-of-fact tone. “My other senses are heightened to an extreme degree. I can ‘see’ in other ways, much more than a regular person can.” 

“Huh,” Frank sort of grunted. He knew all this, of course. What he didn’t know about was the fighting. “That explains some stuff, but it don’t explain it all.” 

“What do you mean?” Matt’s voice was dangerously low. He sounded a lot closer to Red than he did to Murdock. 

“How’d you learn how to fight? Your dad didn’t want you to be a boxer, right? I'm guessing he’s not the one who taught you.”

Matt’s head dipped lower, contemplating. He wasn’t tense though, and Frank took that to be a good sign. Matt licked his lips before he spoke. “No, my dad didn’t teach me,” he confirmed. “I learned how to fight after he was gone.” He looked up and gave Frank a crooked smile. “This will sound a little crazy –” 

“Ain’t none of this normal,” Frank butted in. 

“ – but I learned how to fight from a blind man called Stick. The sisters of the orphanage where I grew up called him,” Matt explained. 

Frank was practically holding his breath. Matt had never been this candid about his childhood with him, not even before the deal with the djinn.

“I was having a lot of trouble and they thought Stick could help me. He’d helped other kids before,” Matt went on. “And he did help, just not in the way the sisters imagined. Stick called my heightened senses a ‘gift.’ He taught me how to control them, how to use them.” 

“And he taught you how to fight,” Frank finished for him. 

“Crazy, right?” 

“Is it any crazier than aliens attacking New York?”

Matt laughed, loose-limbed and relaxed, and Frank gave in. He leaned forward and kissed the other man, smothering that laugh with his mouth. He felt Matt’s surprise, but that was quickly replaced with reciprocation. And then Matt was the one deepening the kiss, opening his mouth, coaxing Frank to play. Things escalated quickly after that. They scrambled to get their gloves off, but couldn’t be bothered with the complicated tape. Then Matt pushed Frank to the ground, and Frank landed with a soft grunt. He pulled Matt on top of him, so that the other man was straddling him. Matt was tugging at the hem of Frank’s shirt and Frank got the idea, lifting his arms so that Matt could pull it off. Then Matt was kissing him, hands and lips mapping lines across his abdomen and chest that only he could see, pressing down on the growing hardness between Frank’s legs. It was good; it was all so good until Matt suddenly stopped, his forehead resting on Frank’s chest. He was breathing heavily. 

“You okay?” Frank said, unable to help the concern in his voice, when Matt hadn’t moved or spoken for several long seconds. 

“Matty?” 

The affectionate nickname slipped out before Frank could stop it. It was the first time he’d _ever_ called Matt that…out loud.

Matt finally shifted, but only to rest his face more comfortably against Frank’s chest. Frank instinctively wrapped his arms around the other man, offering him the comfort that Matt would never ask.

“This,” Matt began, but his voice cracked. “This feels like…this feels like déjà vu,” he eventually got out. He lifted his head, unfocused eyes looking somewhere over Frank’s right shoulder. “I don’t know what’s happening, but this is the most intense case of déjà vu I’ve ever had. It’s like I’m living something a second time.” 

Frank kept silent. He didn’t know what was happening either, but he suspected that it had something to do with the damn djinn and that deal.

Matt pushed himself onto his elbows and Frank bore his weight, loosening his grip slightly, but keeping his arms wrapped around the other man. 

“You remind me of someone,” Matt said suddenly. “I guess you could call her my first love.” 

_Elektra_ , Frank’s mind supplied. Matt’s dead girlfriend, the source of so much of Matt's heartache. But Matt wouldn’t remember that, would he? He wouldn’t remember that Elektra had died on a rooftop in his arms. Frank actually felt his chest constrict at the thought. He knew that Matt could feel it too, and he hoped that the other man interpreted the reaction differently. 

“She was special,” Matt said. 

“First loves are,” Frank said gruffly.

“Elektra was wild and free; always tempting me and pushing me out of my comfort zone,” Matt went on. “But what made her special was that she knew, really _knew_ me. I could be myself around her in a way that I couldn’t with anybody else, before her and since.” He paused and Frank felt the weight of that sightless gaze. “I know it’s too soon to be saying stuff like this,” he began again, “and I don’t know why, but I feel that way around you too. Since the beginning, since the day you walked into my office and before I even knew your name.”

Frank lifted his right hand, gently tracing the side of Matt’s face. He was gratified when Matt leaned into the touch. 

“I want that, Pete,” Matt said softly. “I want to be myself around you. I hide in plain sight all the time. But you…” Matt shook his head. “You get me in this ring and I just let it all go.” 

“Thought you were holding back,” Frank said honestly. 

Matt chuckled and the vibrations passed pleasantly into Frank’s chest. “Maybe a little,” he admitted. 

_Maybe a lot_ , Frank translated. “Suppose that means you’ll kick my ass next time,” he said, a little dryly. 

“There’s going to be a next time?” Matt teased.

“And a next and a next,” Frank confirmed. “Matt,” he said, so that the other man would sharpen his focus on Frank when he spoke. What he wanted to say was important. “I _want_ you to be yourself around me. I don't want it any other way.” 

Matt braced himself on either side of Frank’s body, and Frank loosened his grip some more so that Matt had the freedom to do so. And when Matt leaned down to kiss him again, Frank met him halfway.


	4. New Habits and Old Habits

Frank fished around his pocket to double-check that his keys were there. They were. He hadn’t forgotten anything, not that he had much to forget. But he really should drop by his place after work and pick up more clothes. Matt had actually done their laundry together this week, much to Frank’s surprise. Shared laundry. It seemed like a big step. (It had started with a toothbrush, followed by the clothes. Frank was making _strides_.) 

“Matt,” he said, speaking in a normal tone, even though he was standing at the kitchen counter and the other man was in the bathroom. “We gotta go.”

There was no immediate response, but Frank knew that Matt had heard him. A minute later, the bathroom door opened; there was some movement in the bedroom, and then Matt emerged into the main sitting area. He walked straight to the chair where he’d hung his jacket during breakfast and put it on. His bag, with the day’s case files, was sitting in the next chair. Matt slung the bag on his shoulder, reached for the foldable cane on top of the table and then nodded in Frank’s direction.

Frank lifted his red coffee mug and drained the last two gulps, rinsed it in the sink but left it there. He’d wash it properly later. He picked up his thermos and joined Matt, who was waiting for him at the start of the entrance hallway. Spending so much time with Matt, especially at Matt’s apartment, had given him a better understanding of the other man’s disability. It was hard to think of Matt as ‘disabled,’ especially with everything that he could do, but Matt was really blind. Before Frank’s deal with the djinn, that blindness was something he’d understood only conceptually; had been a fact that he’d often forgot. They hadn’t spent enough time together for the daily shit to really matter, but now that Frank was practically living with the guy, he saw (pun intended) the difference. Matt (obviously) couldn’t see colors. He navigated his apartment through touch and memory, like how he would run his hands over counter surfaces, or know the contents of his cupboards by counting them. Now that he thought of it, Frank found it a little odd that there weren’t Braille labels around the place. It seemed practical, and Matt was a practical guy (it was a trait they actually shared), but he supposed that memory together with those super senses of his was enough for Matt. What Frank _did_ learn was that Matt had a system, and he made sure to adapt to it. The system suited his orderly, military mind. On the surface, it wouldn’t look it but everything about Matt’s place was precise and Frank helped keep it that way, returning things exactly where he found them, making sure to keep spaces and walkways clear. He was still getting used to the idea that he was allowed to show care and consideration for the other man now, whereas before he’d practiced a general sort of indifference. Their old rules wouldn’t have allowed anything more. Their new rules? Fuck. Frank couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he was in a _real fucking relationship_ with Matthew Murdock.

Matt slipped his hand into the crook of Frank’s elbow, even though they weren’t outside the apartment yet. 

“I’ll be at your office a bit later after work,” Frank told him. “Need to drop by my place first.” 

“To pick up more clothes?” Matt teased. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank said. They’d had this conversation before. “Don’t start.” He could feel the other man smirking beside him. “Should I bring takeout?” 

“Probably a good idea,” Matt agreed. 

Sometimes they had dinner at Matt’s office, especially if Matt was working late. Frank had even taken to helping out: sorting, filing, a bit of research, whatever Matt needed. 

“Any suggestions?”

“Thai or Chinese.” Matt paused. “I’m sorta craving Kung Pao Chicken.” 

“Chinese, then,” Frank said. 

“What did I do to deserve such an accommodating boyfriend?” 

“What did I do to deserve such a smartass?” 

Frank’s reply was quick – he was getting better at the banter – but he still found himself flushing. Matt didn’t mind those declarations: statements of what they were, definitions of what they were doing. But anything that smacked of permanence still gave Frank pause. He knew that Matt could feel his unease, but the other man just continued to gently chip away at Frank’s reservations. The Devil was tenacious, but Frank had known that from the start.

“You’re blushing,” Matt noted softly. 

“You _like_ making me do that,” Frank shot back. 

Matt chuckled. “I do,” he agreed. “Changes in body temperature, respiration, increased blood flow – they all help me ‘see’ you better.” 

_Huh._

“You light up for me in bed.” 

Frank definitely flushed at that. “If that’s your way of telling me that I’m hot,” he began. 

Matt laughed and squeezed his arm. “Well, you _feel_ hot,” he replied.

“Stop, or we’ll be late.” 

“I’m my own boss,” Matt reminded him. “I can afford to be late. Being a union rep must count for something,” he added. 

They’d reached the end of the hallway and Frank opened the door. “Not _that_ much,” Frank said. “If you paid me, I could quit my job.” 

“I pay you in other ways,” Matt said, dropping his voice so suggestively that Frank’s boxers suddenly felt a little tight. 

“Get outta here,” Frank told him, practically pushing the other man out the door. 

“Hey, blind person,” Matt objected, but he swung his cane on the floor and moved so deftly that he might as well have been Fred Astaire. 

“You really have some moves on you,” Frank commented, following Matt out and turning to lock the door. (He had his own key.) “You dance?” 

Matt inclined his head. “Do _you_?”

Frank considered this. “Maybe if you get me drunk enough,” he finally said. He held out his arm for Matt to grasp again. It was time to keep up appearances. 

“Ah,” Matt said thoughtfully, resuming his former position. “Ammunition for the future.”

* * * * *

So it was that Frank Castle, now going by the alias Pete Castiglione, feared by the world as the Punisher, found himself in a relationship with the Devil, who couldn’t remember that he was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen and was a blind lawyer by day.

Stranger things had happened, Frank supposed.

One of the consequences of being in a proper relationship with the Devil meant that he didn’t go out as much at night anymore. It was hard to be a vigilante when you spent five nights a week with your boyfriend, who for some reason never called Frank out on the smell of ammo and gun oil that must have lingered on him. As smoothly as things were going between them, it was still hard for Frank to hold on to this second chance with Matt, no matter how much he wanted to. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. There were too many secrets between them, even if he was the only one who knew it. 

As for Matt, at first Frank thought the other man was doing well. But the more time Frank spent with him, the more he realized that his original assessment had been correct: the Devil was still in Matt, and he was trying to get out. If Frank had to bet on the djinn’s magic smothering Matt’s desire to be Daredevil or on the Devil breaking free, well, that was an easy bet. The Devil was a part of Matt, his other half. There was a time when Frank would’ve called the Devil Matt’s _better_ half, but now that he’d gotten a taste of life with Matthew Murdock, he’d had to reassess. 

What Frank noticed seemed harmless at first. They continued to train on Saturdays. Frank got better at the sparring just from familiarity with Matt’s technique, but Matt kept strictly to boxing even though he’d practice other styles around Frank now. Sometimes they’d go through other moves and holds (the Devil was a slippery eel). Eventually, Frank would get a no holds barred fight against Matt but that was something they’d have to work towards. 

Even though Matt should’ve been tired after a day in court or consulting with clients, he’d still like to work out in the evening. It gave him a good appetite he would tell Frank, even though Frank didn’t comment on it. He knew the punching bag had been put in Matt’s living room for a reason; he remembered watching Matt practice forms on the roof. The Devil had too much energy to burn, now that he wasn’t out cleaning up the streets. 

The first time Matt had slipped out of bed to go up to the roof in the dead of night, Frank had slept through it. He’d only partially woken when Matt had slipped back into bed, snuggling into the warmth of Frank’s back. 

“Cold,” Frank had muttered, but he’d gripped Matt’s hands and put them against his chest to warm them. He’d fallen back asleep with Matt’s breath against his nape. 

The second time it happened, Frank had woken up and Matt must’ve known that too, but that didn’t stop the other man. Frank had lain in bed after Matt left wondering what the next play was. Eventually, he got out of bed too, padded to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. When it was done, he filled his thermos, grabbed the throw blanket on top of the sofa and headed up to the roof himself. He sat on the ledge against the stairs, put the blanket over his shoulders, poured himself a cup of coffee and watched. He was familiar with Matt’s routine from all his nights of stalking. He judged that Matt was only a third of the way through, so he sipped his coffee and got comfortable. When Matt finished, he walked over to where Frank was sitting and joined him. Frank poured a fresh cup of coffee and passed it to Matt without being asked. They sat together and the silence was peaceful. Comfortable. They hadn’t had that before. Eventually, Frank slung half the throw blanket over Matt’s shoulders when he thought the other man must’ve been getting chilly. Wouldn’t want Red catching a cold. 

“You’re never surprised by anything I do,” Matt said suddenly, pulling Frank out of his thoughts. “You have the steadiest, surest heartbeat I’ve ever heard.” 

“I’m starting to think there ain’t nothing you _can’t_ do,” Frank replied, and it was the truth. It was always smart to be truthful with Matt. Anything else would lead to trouble.

“And I’m starting to think you know how to evade without lying,” Matt said wryly. “That’s a clever trick.” 

“You think I'm lying to you, Matty?” 

Matt was silent for a long time, so long that Frank took the coffee back from him and had a sip. 

“No,” he finally said. “But you’re holding back.” 

“Does that bother you?” Frank asked quietly, since there was no point in denying it. 

Matt tilted his head toward Frank, gaze cast downwards but there was a faint smile on his face. “Not as much as it probably should,” he said. “I trust that you’ll tell me when you’re ready. And I don’t want to rock the boat. What we have is too good for that.” 

Frank took another gulp of the coffee to hide the lump that was trying to form in his throat. Matt might as well have pulled that sentiment out of Frank’s turbulent thoughts. What they had _was_ too good. That’s how he knew it couldn’t last.

Matt leaned a little closer to him, and Frank was sure the other man was scenting him. As if to prove his point, Matt said, “You smell good.” 

Frank wondered what that meant, but he didn’t ask. “You ready to go back in?” he said instead. 

“Yeah,” Matt agreed. 

He stood up while Frank drained the last of the coffee before screwing the lid back on the thermos. Matt held out a hand to him and Frank grasped it, allowing the other man to pull him to his feet. He was surprised when Matt didn’t let go, pulling Frank against him. He was less surprised when Matt tilted his face upwards and slotted their mouths together. They tasted of the coffee they’d drunk, but Matt always tasted like something more to Frank. Each kiss seemed precious to him, as though he wouldn’t get another one. Few people would probably suspect, but Frank enjoyed kissing. There were times when it felt more intimate to him than sex even. And he hadn’t really been allowed to kiss Red before. Not like this. Kisses then were just rough and ready excuses before the next act, but now Frank was allowed to linger, to taste…to explore. And Matt tasted _so good_.

“What was that for?” Frank asked a little roughly when the kiss ended and Matt was nosing at his neck, probably trying to get more of that scent that he enjoyed. 

“Does there have to be a reason?” Matt asked, and Frank could feel his smile. 

“No,” Frank replied, wrapping an arm across Matt’s shoulders and turning them in the direction of the stairs. “There doesn’t.”

* * * * *

The extra training aside, it was becoming more common for Matt to get distracted at night. Frank noticed it sometimes at dinner, sometimes when they were on the sofa reading or watching television. (Frank had brought a TV over and was now practicing his hand at audio descriptions, another new habit of theirs.) It was subtle; a peculiar tilt of Matt’s head coupled with a sudden stillness that told Frank the other man was listening to something far away. Frank couldn’t imagine what that was like. Voices, voices, hundreds of voices. All the time. All the noise. All the distraction. He wasn’t even sure if Matt could turn that shit off. No wonder it made the Devil want to punch things. Frank would tap Matt on the knee or lean toward him to whisper something in his ear, and that would bring Matt back to him with a soft smile.

The distractions and the training came to a head one evening when they were walking home from dinner. They’d tried out a new ramen place two blocks from Matt’s apartment. That evening crystalized for Frank what an easy target Matt must look like to the average person. Maybe Frank found it hard to think of the Devil as ‘helpless,’ but a blind man, and someone as pretty as Murdock? Easy pickings for the dumbass criminal. 

The two dumbass criminals they ran into that night were both armed with guns and actually tried to mug them in the mouth of an alleyway. Fuckers. Matt disarmed them before Frank could blink and then he proceeded to give both men the beatdown of their lives. Normally so quick to react, Frank was stunned by the display of sudden and terrible violence, but knew that it had only been a matter of time. He didn’t try to stop Matt; didn’t help him either. This was catharsis for the Devil. And when Matt’s knuckles were bruised and bloody enough, he stood up and said calmly in a voice that almost made Frank shiver: 

“Call it in, 15th precinct.” 

Frank pulled out a burner phone and did just that, leaving an anonymous tip for the police, wondering all the while if Brett Mahoney, whom he knew had a ‘personal relationship’ of sorts with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, would recognize the handiwork. (Frank thought he would, even if the Devil hadn’t been seen for months. Speculation was rampant as to why. Even if he wasn’t taking down criminals, Daredevil still made the back pages. He was a godamn celebrity, and the people missed their hero.) While Frank made the call, Matt wiped the blood off his knuckles with a handkerchief, smoothed down his hair, fixed his tie and jacket and then stepped over the unconscious bodies. He waited for Frank on the sidewalk, cane in hand. Frank joined him and they walked the rest of the way home as though nothing had happened. It was when they got home that Matt rounded on him in the safety of the apartment and shit almost hit the fan.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” he asked. He didn’t sound angry, and the question wasn’t an accusation. Frank could hear curiosity in the other man’s tone. 

“I thought you needed that,” Frank said, honest as ever. 

“Why?” Matt pressed. 

Here, Frank hesitated. It was only a fraction of a second, but he knew that for Matt that was long enough. “Seemed to be a natural outcome of all the training. You don’t train this hard if yer not building to something.” 

“And do you know what that is, Pete?” 

Frank couldn’t answer that _without_ lying and that in itself was the answer, one that Matt understood because he didn’t push. Instead, he stepped forward, crowding into Frank’s space. Frank didn’t back away.

“You know what else I learned tonight?” Matt asked, speaking in what Frank mentally called ‘the Devil voice.’ It was a voice that his body responded to, almost like a form of classical conditioning. “You _liked_ what you saw. It turned you on.” 

There was definitely no denying that. 

“What if I did?” 

Matt’s chuckle was low and dangerous. “Then I’d say you might be a little bit messed up in the head, Pete,” he replied. “But that would just make two of us.” 

“You think you’re messed up, Red?” 

“I _know_ it,” Matt said, before crushing their mouths together.

The kiss was more teeth and blood than anything else and Frank responded to that too. It was like a light switch being flipped on, and then he was pushing at Matt, roughly walking the other man backwards until Matt landed on the sofa. Frank almost ripped his shirt off and Matt was shimmying out of his pants. Frank helped the other man, grabbing the legs and yanking the pants off the rest of the way. Then he was on top of the other man, grinding against him, while Matt was pulling Frank’s shirt over his head and tossing it on the floor. Finally, blessed skin-to-skin contact. Matt felt warm, almost feverish, as though his senses were on overdrive. Warning bells were going off in Frank’s head, but he pushed them aside. He knew that they were falling into old habits, but this felt too good, too familiar. This was the Devil he’d missed. 

“You gonna dry-fuck me, Pete?” Matt whispered in his ear. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Frank murmured, his thumb running over the slit of Matt’s cock, smearing the precome that he found there. Matt arched into the touch. 

“Yeah,” Matt said, drawing out the word so that Frank felt the heat of it go down his spine and pool in his groin. 

Frank closed his eyes, letting the touch, taste and smell of Matt engulf him, a poor substitute for what the other man must have been experiencing. He bit down on Matt’s shoulder, sucked a bruise there that Matt’s shirt would have to cover in the morning. 

“Nah, Red,” he said, not realizing that it was the second time he’d called Matt that. “Not tonight. Gonna fuck you real slow,” he went on, his voice also dropping a pitch. Matt made a soft sound, almost like a whine and he moved restlessly underneath Frank. 

“Later,” he added. 

Frank knew what Matt wanted: something hard, fast and a little messy. Violent, like their actions after a long night on the streets, but Frank was coming to his senses somewhat. Those warning bells were persistent. There was something dangerous about this encounter, as though they were balancing on a knife’s edge and giving in to what Matt wanted (no matter how much he wanted it too) would tip them over. So, he took them both in hand, grip too tight to really be comfortable, stroked down and then up, the friction painful enough that it burned. Matt’s kisses were more nips and bites, and Frank would have his own bruises to cover up the next day, but he held firm, stroking, stroking, until he felt Matt shudder beneath him and he was following the other man over the edge. 

“Better?” he whispered, nipping the lobe of Matt’s ear, the sticky mess of their mingled releases pooling between their bodies. 

Matt sighed, his right hand running up and down Frank’s side. “It’ll do,” he said, contentedly. “For now.”

* * * * *

It was later still after Frank had fucked Matt slow like he’d promised, and they’d cleaned up and were cocooned in Matt’s silk sheets (which Frank never gave the other man shit for because he _understood_ ) and Frank was dozing, that he felt Matt place his hand over Frank’s heart.

“You called me Red earlier,” he commented. “Twice.” 

Frank was instantly alert. “Did I?” he said, faintly. 

Matt’s low chuckle reverberated through him. “It’s a good thing you don’t lie often, Pete,” Matt teased him. “You’re terrible at it.”

The joke didn’t ease Frank’s sudden tension. Matt must’ve felt his reaction keenly because he said soothingly, “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay,” he repeated, like he was calming a skittish colt. “You don’t have to talk about it,” he added, his hand settling over Frank’s heart again. Frank instinctively gripped it and was gratified when Matt’s fingers closed over his own. “It was just…strange.” 

“Still don’t want to rock the boat?” Frank commented, after a while. 

“Nope,” Matt said. 

That was another one of their new habits, as mind-boggling as cuddling after sex – they didn’t fight anymore. Frank could feel Matt drifting off. Even without the other man’s super senses, he recognized the pattern of Matt’s breathing. He should’ve let it go (he didn’t want to rock the boat either), but his trigger finger tapped restlessly on Matt’s hip and his concern for the other man was overcoming him. 

“You okay?” he asked, so softly that he barely whispered the words. 

Matt shifted slightly in his embrace. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked in return. 

Frank wanted to shrug. “In the alleyway,” he began. “You sort of…” 

“Lost it?” Matt finished for him.

Frank heard the amused lilt in the other man’s voice and the sound did not sit well with him. “Those assholes are gonna be laid up in the hospital for a coupla weeks,” he said. 

“At least,” Matt murmured. 

Frank thought Matt was going to leave it at that but the other man surprised him by continuing. 

“You were right about the training building to something. I just don’t know what.” Matt shifted again, resting his head more comfortably on Frank’s shoulder. “I have these…skills…and these…senses,” Matt said haltingly. “I can do things other people can’t. If God gives you these…gifts…shouldn’t you do something with them?” 

Frank didn’t know what to say to that because there didn’t seem to be any right answer, so he didn’t say anything at all. He just listened. Matt didn’t seem to mind either, since he kept right on talking. 

“I can hear them all, Pete,” he said. “All these prayers. People’s hopes. Dreams. Wishes. Curses. And I tell myself, you can help them. Maybe not all; maybe not even enough to make a difference, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.”

Frank didn’t ask how Matt would help them or what he wanted to do. His trigger finger stilled on Matt’s hip and he moved his hand up Matt’s back in a soft caress, tracing the scars that he knew by heart. 

Confessions in bed after sex. That was one of their old habits, too.


	5. Breaking Down (Again)

_Of all the fucking stupid –_

“Get down!” Frank yelled.

The spray of bullets pelted the container that he was crouched behind. Somewhere above him, in the pitch black of the night, Red was doing his acrobatic shit, and not listening to a godamned word Frank said. Frank wasn’t worried about him. Red knew how to handle himself, as he’d proven to Frank time and time again on those rare occasions that they’d been forced to team up. No, Frank was fucking furious _at himself_. He was a godamned _tactician_ for fuck’s sake, and he’d somehow allowed his _boyfriend_ to talk him into walking into a fucking _arms deal_ unarmed and unprepared. Frank didn’t carry anymore when he was around Matt. The other man would’ve known and would’ve asked questions; not rocking the boat had become their personal mantra. Of course, it also meant that Frank was in an unfortunate predicament that wouldn’t have happened if not for Matt. He’d have to arm himself the hard way. 

“The fuck, Red,” Frank muttered, not caring that Matt would hear him. “Couldn’t you have started with something fucking smaller?”

Frank had known something was up when Matt had changed their destination about halfway through their cab ride home. They’d watched (or in Matt’s case, listened) to a concert at the park. It was such a normal, mundane thing to do – a real date night – that Frank should’ve guessed that the universe would fuck with him again. They’d wound up in a rough neighborhood, Matt asking the cab driver to drop them off in front of a field bordered by warehouses. Frank knew they’d be walking the rest of the way. It was too late to stop Matt. He had that dog-with-a-bone stubbornness about him that could rival Frank’s own stubbornness.

“You wanna give me a sit rep?” he’d asked the other man, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he’d walked beside him along the wire fence that lined the field. 

“Is that your military training kicking in?” Matt had asked in return. 

Frank’s heartbeat had remained steady and sure. Matt was right. His military training had kicked in the moment he’d stepped out of the cab. He’d never brought it up before and Matt hadn’t asked, but there was no point in denying it now. 

“Marine sniper reconnaissance,” he’d stated. 

Matt had stopped walking, and Frank had automatically stopped as well. He’d glanced at the other man, noting the sharp smile on Matt’s features. 

“Ammo and gun oil,” Matt had confirmed. 

Frank had absolutely no doubt that the Devil was standing beside him; all that was missing was the mask. 

“What’re we walking into?” he’d asked calmly.

* * * * *

What they walked into was an arms deal gone bad. Turk Barrett was in the middle of it, trying not to get shot. From what Matt had told him, the deal had originally been between Turk and the Greeks, but a second player had turned up and crashed the party. Albanians, Frank thought, judging by the snippets of language that he heard. Albanians in an arms deal. That was news to him. The Albanians were better known for human trafficking and prostitution rings. It seemed like they were expanding their business. Not if Frank (and Red) had something to say about that.

They had plenty to say about that, and their actions, as always, spoke louder than their words. Even with minimal preparation and no weaponry, aside from what they found on site (there were lots of toys for Frank to play with), they worked efficiently together. Red took the Albanians from on high and, once armed, Frank drove the Greeks into a corner, capping knees and shoulders to disable them. (He’d opted for the non-lethal approach tonight. Things were already a shitshow. He didn’t need to hear Red sermonizing at the end of it.) Matt’s makeshift mask, appropriately made from the maroon scarf he’d been wearing earlier, held fast as he knocked the men unconscious. Frank helped him using the butt of his new rifle. Together they tied the men into two groups: wounded, bloody and unconscious for the police to find them. 

When they were done, Turk Barrett crawled out from under the van he’d been hiding. Frank had completely forgotten about him, and was genuinely surprised that Turk hadn’t used their intervention as a means of escape. He found out why soon enough. 

“Double D?” Turk said, approaching them cautiously. “Man, is that you? Where the fuck you been?” He glanced at Frank a little fearfully, but continued to address Matt. Clearly, Turk thought that he had enough goodwill with the Devil to earn a little protection from the Punisher. “When did you start working with him?” he asked, jerking a thumb in Frank’s direction. “Thought you two had contrasting _modus operandi_.”

Inside, Frank was screaming every expletive he knew. _Of course_ , Red would walk them into an ambush. _Of course_ , the guy running the deal would be Red’s snitch. _Of course_ , Turk Barrett would recognize Red without the suit, the mask or the black outfit. _Of course_ , he’d recognize Frank, too. _Of course_ , this big a bust would wind up in the papers the next day, maybe even make the midnight news. _What the fuck?!_

Before Matt could respond, Frank stepped towards Turk. 

“Oh, hey man. Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Turk said, immediately holding up his hands in surrender. He began to back away, looking at Matt as he did so. It was obviously a silent plea for help, but Matt’s head was bowed. Frank recognized the pose. Matt was working shit out and pretty soon, they were all gonna be fucked. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Frank snarled, and knocked Turk Barrett out cold. 

Matt still had his head down when Frank turned back to him. He couldn’t be bothered tying Turk up with the rest of them, and it didn’t matter much to him whether Turk was arrested or not. All his focus was on Red and how to handle the situation. He could already see the walls of their relationship crumbling around them. So much for not rocking the boat. They’d both dived headfirst into the water and hadn’t bothered with the life preservers.

Matt finally looked up, his gaze exactly at Frank’s position as if he could see. It froze Frank on the spot. 

“He knew me,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “He knew you, too.” 

Frank opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. _Stop_ , he silently thought. _Please stop_. 

“Who are you, Pete?” Matt asked. “Who are you _really_?” He stepped toward Frank. “And who am I?” 

“We can talk about it,” Frank said, finally finding his voice again. “But not here. We need to leave.” 

Matt wouldn’t be deterred. “Is this something we’ve done before?” 

“A coupla of times, yeah,” Frank told him. “And that’s why we need to leave.” 

Matt nodded. “Let’s go,” he said.

* * * * *

The fight came later, a screaming match of epic proportions that somehow didn’t devolve into actual combat fighting. It ended badly, but unexpectedly, with Matt on the floor clutching his head in extreme pain before passing out. Frank full on panicked for a whole two minutes. He knew that this was the djinn’s doing; this was somehow part of the godamned spell. Unfortunately, said djinn hadn’t given him a fucking lamp or any other means of summoning him. And since Frank didn’t know any magic of his own, he’d have to opt for the next best thing – regular, ordinary human medicine.

So, Frank brought Matt to the emergency room of the nearest hospital. He was admitted and tests were run. Frank wasn’t surprised when the doctors couldn't find anything wrong with him; dealing with djinn magic probably wasn’t part of the medical training. 

“He’s not in a coma,” Frank confirmed with the young doctor assigned to Matt’s case. 

“No,” the man replied, not even trying to hide his puzzlement. “All the tests came back fine. He _should_ wake up…” He turned to Frank. “It’s best if we keep him overnight for observation.” 

“Fine by me, doc,” Frank replied. 

Frank spent what was left of the night (or the early hours of the morning) in a cramped, uncomfortable chair by Matt’s bed. He fell asleep, slouched, with his chin resting on his chest.

* * * * *

When Frank woke up, sunlight was trying to push its way through the drawn curtains. Without glancing at him, he knew that Matt was awake as well.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough from sleep. “Been up long?” 

“Not long,” Matt replied. 

Frank sat up properly and stretched, working the cricks out of his neck. “I’ll go get the doc, okay?” He was about to stand up, but Matt stopped him. 

“Pete,” he said. 

It was just a name, but Frank heard the command there and he responded to it. Matt held out his hand, palm face up on the bed. Frank understood, placing his hand in Matt’s. _They fit together so well_ , he thought as he held Matt’s hand. And yet, they didn’t fit together at all. That was the problem. 

“I’ll be right back,” he told Matt. 

It was the first lie he’d ever told Matt to his face, and Matt didn’t call him out on it. The other man just nodded, releasing Frank’s hand. Frank left the room and dropped by the nurses’ station, informing them that Matt had woken up. Then he walked straight out of the hospital.

* * * * *

There was no contact between them for the rest of the week. Frank did his best to get back into his routine before Matt had re-entered his life. He went to work. He did his hours. He went home. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

He also went out a few nights and looked for the biggest, baddest fight in town. He tried to stay out of Hell’s Kitchen, but the crime would eventually lead him back there. The underworld had been put on alert since he and Red had broken up the arms deal. Reports were out that ‘witnesses’ had seen the Punisher and Daredevil together. After months of silence, the two vigilantes were plastered all over the front pages again. They were, literally, the talk of the town. 

Frank hadn’t actually told Matt in the midst of their screaming match that he was the Punisher or that Matt was Daredevil. He figured he didn’t have to now, not with the papers and the media talking about them, not with Turk calling Matt ‘Double D’ with such familiarity.

Friday dawned. It was Frank’s regular lunch meeting with Matt at the diner. Frank hadn’t known until his feet were walking him in the direction of said diner, whether or not he’d actually turn up. The fact that he hadn’t told Phil during the week to replace him as Matt’s liaison probably should’ve been enough of a clue. Still, he hesitated outside the door. He was early. Really early. But with Matt’s senses, the other man probably knew that already. 

Frank would never call himself a coward, so he pulled open the door to the diner and stepped inside. He was about to greet Agnes, but she looked a little upset as she motioned in the direction of their ‘regular’ booth. Frank immediately understood why. There was somebody already sitting there, his back to Frank. Frank could hardly begrudge the guy. He was early, after all. Frank waved in Agnes’s direction, letting her know that it was okay. He’d just take the booth beside their regular table, which was empty.

Frank strode down the diner. He hadn’t been planning to say anything to the man in ‘their’ booth, much less look at him, but as he was about to pass the table, a voice said, “Sit.” 

Frank stopped. He recognized that voice, and that accent. He turned his head. A wizened, old man with a turban sat in Matt’s regular seat. The djinn.

Wordlessly, Frank slid into his spot. He sat opposite the djinn; hands resting in his lap while his trigger finger beat a staccato rhythm on his thigh. He didn’t say anything, just sat studying the creature disguised as a man, now that he could see him in daylight. It was the djinn who broke the silence. 

“You really fucked up.” 

Silently, Frank agreed. He was about to be berated by a magical creature. Even one of Red’s sermons sounded more appealing.

The djinn leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You couldn’t just leave well enough alone,” he began. “Six months you stayed away from him. Six months and everything was fine. Have you any idea how close he is to breaking the spell? How hard I’ve been working just to keep him alive? Maybe he’s not worth the trouble. Maybe neither of you are,” the djinn spat. 

It was Frank’s turn to lean forward. “What are you talking about?” he asked, voice low and menacing. “What do you mean, ‘keep him alive’?”

The djinn shut his eyes and seemed to murmur a prayer before he opened them again. “Are you retarded as well as dumb?” he snapped. “What was that spell for? To save his life, yes? What do you think will happen if your friend regains his memories, the very thing you traded for his life? Do you understand now? All you had to do was stay away from him. I thought you understood that.” 

Frank’s anger that he’d kept at bay rose to the surface. He placed his right palm flat on the table. “You didn’t give me a fucking manual,” he snarled. “How was I supposed to know that to do?” 

“Common sense!” the djinn roared back.

The silence in the diner was complete as heads turned in their direction. Agnes seemed to materialize by their table, coffee pot in hand. She poured Frank’s usual, eyeing the stranger skeptically, as she asked in a light voice, “Everything all right here?” 

Frank tore his gaze from the djinn to give her a reassuring smile. “Thank you, Agnes,” he said politely. “Everything’s fine. Sorry for the disturbance. Won’t happen again.” 

“Matt’ll be joining you?” Agnes pursued, now ignoring the other man. 

Frank nodded. “He’ll be here,” he said. 

“Okay then,” Agnes said, seemingly satisfied. “Should I take your order now or…?” 

“I’ll wait ‘til Matt gets here,” Frank replied. 

She moved away and Frank’s attention returned to the ‘man’ in front of him. “As I was saying,” he said calmly. “You didn’t give me a fucking manual.” He continued before the djinn could interrupt him. “And I never trusted that you could do what you said you could.”

The djinn gave him a withering look. “The fact that your friend is alive would be evidence to the contrary,” he said, still angry but keeping his voice low. 

“That’s not what I mean,” Frank went on. “The deal was you’d take away Matt’s memories of being…of his…other life…and his _desire_ to do that stuff. Man, that’s bullshit,” Frank almost spat. “ _You_ don’t get it. The Devil is part of him. You can’t just take that away. Maybe for a while, but forever? Nah, that wasn’t ever gonna happen. And maybe you’re right,” Frank added, leaning back in his seat. “Maybe my being around him brought that side of him back quicker, but it was always coming back. Do _you_ understand?”

The djinn didn’t reply, just looked at Frank thoughtfully. His earlier anger appeared to be gone. To be replaced by what, Frank wasn’t sure. But he wasn’t getting any feel good vibes from his companion. 

“Yes, I understand,” the djinn said slowly. “I understand that you’re even more fucked than I thought.” 

Frank bristled, but kept his breathing calm. His thoughts flitted to Matt, who could hear conversations five blocks away and wondered if he was listening in on this conversation now. He knew Matt could target his voice in a crowd. What was two blocks? 

“Explain,” Frank said, flatly.

The djinn let out one of those long-suffering sighs. “Magic,” he said, as though he were talking to a two-year old, “is about sacrifice.” He gave Frank a hard look. “Do you know why I chose you that night?” When Frank didn’t respond, he continued. “When your friend was dying in the backseat of my cab, I felt _everything_. I felt your desperation, your heartache, your _regret_. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that you would sacrifice anything to save him.” The djinn smiled, and it was almost tender. “Sacrifices based on love? They are the best kind, the most nourishing to one such as myself.” Here, the djinn paused and his expression shifted from understanding to calculation. “I made a mistake, however,” he went on. “I thought that love was unrequited, but that is clearly not the case. At least, not anymore. And that is why you are fucked.” 

Frank shook his head. “Forgive me for being dumb and retarded,” he said. “But that explanation don’t explain much. What are my _options_?”

“You have three,” the djinn stated matter-of-factly. “One. You let things keep going the way they are, the spell is broken, and your friend dies. Two. You stop your friend from pursuing the path he is on, the spell holds, and _maybe_ you live happily ever after. Three. You sacrifice something else for your friend’s life.” He stopped and looked at Frank expectantly as his words sung in. 

“Sacrifice what?” Frank asked, after a long moment.

“Something important,” the djinn said, a little too off-handedly. “Something equal to what you gave up before, say…” he trailed off and gave Frank a shrewd look. “Your memories of him? _All_ your memories,” the djinn added. “Then you move away, far away from him. You disappear. You look like a man who knows how to do that. So, when he comes looking for you – because he _will_ come looking for you – he won’t find you. And you and I won’t be sitting in another diner six months from now having the same conversation.” 

Frank remained silent. The djinn leaned forward again. 

“There was never going to be a happy ending to your story,” he said. “But I think you always knew that.” 

“I don’t know what’s worse,” Frank said, after another long silence had passed. “Being the one who remembers or being the one who doesn’t.”

The djinn smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “The burden of memory is always worse,” he said. “That’s why you took it upon yourself the first time. It was a sacrifice twice over, beautiful and meaningful. There's a reason why they say ignorance is bliss.” He moved to stand, but Frank’s voice stopped him.

“Is it an outright exchange?” Frank asked. “I give up my memories and Matt gets his back?” 

The djinn nodded. “An outright exchange,” he confirmed. Then he stood up. 

“Do I get a lamp this time?” Frank said dryly. “How am I supposed to contact you?”

The djinn reached into his pocket and pulled out a large, old coin and tossed it to Frank. Frank caught it easily, turning the coin over in his hand. It was covered in symbols that he didn’t recognize. “And what do I do with this?” he asked, holding the coin up. 

“Pretend it’s a lamp,” the djinn replied, just as dryly.

Frank watched the djinn walk away, his breath catching as his gaze caught Matt entering the diner. How the fuck was he going to explain this? Matt and the djinn passed each other in the aisle, the djinn moving out of the way slightly to give Matt more room. He caught Frank’s eye when he turned around and briefly watched Matt head to ‘their’ table. He gave Frank a curt nod, and then was on his way. 

Frank was still feeling a little unsettled when Matt slid into the booth opposite him, taking the djinn’s recently vacated place. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out, before Matt had even folded his cane and placed it on the seat. 

Matt glanced at him, surprise written across his face. “I wasn’t going to lead with that,” he admitted. “But okay. I’m sorry, too.” 

Frank smiled wryly. “Just like that?” he said, knowing that his smile seeped into his voice. 

“Just like that,” Matt confirmed. “Not that we shouldn’t talk about it,” he added. 

“But it can wait ‘til later,” Frank finished for him.

“Exactly,” Matt agreed. 

“Should I bring take-out later?” 

“I thought we could stay in on this Friday night,” Matt admitted. “Have a proper meal at home.” 

Frank felt a pleasant warmth bloom in his chest at Matt’s use of the word ‘home.’ He wondered if he was ‘lighting up’ for the other man at that moment. Judging by the soft smile on Matt’s face, he probably was. 

“You just want me to cook,” Frank said, falling easily into their light banter. 

“You have skills,” Matt praised him, making Frank laugh.

Their conversation was so effortless that it took Frank an extra moment to figure out what was wrong. Matt was being completely natural with him. He wasn’t faking it. Frank had expected to be on the defensive immediately. There was no way Matt could not have heard his talk with the djinn, especially since he’d been on his way to the diner while they’d been hashing out Frank’s options. Unless…unless the djinn had used his mojo to block that conversation out. That was the only explanation. Maybe the djinn didn’t even register on Matt’s radar. Frank supposed he should’ve been grateful. It gave him a clean slate as he figured out what to do. Still…

_Godamn magic._


	6. Hard Choices

Frank cooked dinner for them that night, and if he was extra careful with it, he knew that Matt would attribute it to part of Frank’s apology. An apology dinner instead of, say, the last dinner Frank might ever prepare for them. Just like Frank fully expected to have make-up sex later, which might turn out to be the last time they ever had sex as well. The djinn hadn’t given him a deadline per se, but he could tell that what was happening with Matt was urgent. There would be no procrastinating about it. So, Frank cooked a really good meal, even going out to buy a bottle of wine – one of Maria’s favorites since he was no wine connoisseur – even though he and Matt were hardly big wine drinkers. The wine marked that the occasion was special, and it was.

After the meal was done and the dishes put away (Frank would miss the domesticity of it all if this was their last night together), they settled on the sofa: Matt with the last of the wine, while Frank had switched to scotch. Matt had draped his legs across Frank’s lap, leaning back against the sofa’s armrest, his left arm stretched along the sofa’s back. 

“I have a story to tell you,” Frank began without any preamble. “And it’s gonna sound completely batshit, but you’ll know every word of it is true with your human lie detector thing.” 

Matt hummed thoughtfully. “Y’know,” he said slowly. “Some crazy people, sociopaths – not politically correct, I know – are some of the hardest people to read because they believe everything they say is true. Sometimes, truth is just a point-of-view.” 

“I can’t tell if you’re doing your lawyer shit,” Frank replied. “Or if you’re actually calling me crazy.” 

Matt chuckled, his hand sliding to Frank’s shoulder, which he gave a gentle squeeze. “Tell me your story, Pete,” he said.

“You and I have met before,” Frank said bluntly. “I know you don’t remember. It was before your…accident. That…accident, it wiped a lot of your memories.” 

“That makes sense,” Matt interrupted, his hand stroking Frank’s shoulder absently. He stopped, and Frank felt the other man’s senses focus on him. “I’ve always felt like I know you. That’s because I do.” 

“Yeah, well.” Frank shrugged. Fuck, this was going to be hard. “Things were really different…before. We sort of hated each other. We didn’t get along. At all. And then later, we mostly tolerated each other.” 

“I bet the hate sex was good.” 

Frank glanced at the other man. Matt looked amused, and Frank appreciated that he was trying to ease Frank’s tension through humor. It was working. 

“Sex was never the problem between us,” Frank told him. “It was everything else.” He sighed. “I shot you in the head the first time we met. I wasn’t trying to kill you,” he added quickly. “It was just a warning shot, and you were wearing protection. Messed up your senses good, though. Didn’t find out about your senses 'til later.”

Matt’s amusement faded and the hand on Frank’s shoulder traveled upwards until it rested against Frank’s nape, a warm comforting weight. Frank leaned back into the touch. He closed his eyes. 

“We’ve come a long way since then,” Matt said softly. 

“My name isn’t Pete,” Frank said, eyes still shut. “It’s Frank. Frank Castle.”

“The Punisher.” 

Matt’s voice was oddly flat, but Frank didn’t hear any censure or disapproval there. Just a kind of…detachment. And an utter lack of surprise. 

He expected Matt to pull away or do something to put some distance between them, but when he didn’t, Frank opened his eyes. If anything, Matt had moved closer, near enough that if Frank turned his head slightly, it would be enough to kiss the other man. He turned his head, the hand on his nape still cradling him, and Matt slotted their lips together. It was a kiss of reassurance, and Frank gratefully took whatever Matt was offering him. He rested his forehead against Matt’s when the kiss ended, Matt’s hand still on his nape. Matt practically spoke into his mouth when he said, “Tell me the rest of your story, Frank.” 

Frank blinked back the surprise of hearing Matt call him by his name. It had been so long, and the simple acceptance of who Frank really was moved him. 

“This ain’t a story with a happy ending,” he said. 

He felt Matt smile against his lips. “Ending hasn’t been written yet, has it?” 

“Is this more of your fancy lawyer shit?” 

Matt did pull away then, but only far enough so he could prop his head on his hand, using Frank’s shoulder for support. “Quit stalling,” he teased. “I wanna hear the rest of the story.”

“So pushy,” Frank muttered, but inwardly, he was smiling. The burden of telling his tale was getting lighter, even if the outcome was uncertain. He should’ve known that Matt would help him along. 

“The only thing that’s ever really mattered to me is family,” he told Matt. “And I always had two families: Maria and the kids, and the marines, my brothers-in-arms. I loved both my families, but I had to keep them separate, y’know? Maria and the kids grounded me, but you couldn’t bring the war back home with you. That would just be wrong.” 

“Maybe sometimes it can’t be helped,” Matt said softly. “You’re not a robot, Frank, with a switch that can turn that part of you on and off.” 

“I used to think I was,” Frank admitted. “A killing machine that would come home for rest and repairs. But you’re right,” he said, reaching for Matt’s free hand. “There’s no switch for something like that, and Maria knew it too. Sometimes I’d catch her looking at me, and I knew that _she knew_ that I’d changed. War changes you, Matt. And the shit they made us do over there.” Frank shook his head, as though that would dispel the memories. “I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway. What kind of man does that make me?”

“Someone who followed orders,” Matt said. “Like you were trained to do. Someone who saw a mission through, no matter how ugly or brutal it got.” 

“But what if that mission was wrong?” 

“Then you learn to live with your actions. You learn to forgive yourself, and maybe, find a way to atone.” 

Frank looked at the other man and the sudden longing for him was acute. “I wish we’d met differently,” he said. “Before. Things would’ve played out differently, and maybe we would’ve found our way here anyway, and things wouldn’t be as fucked up as they are now.”

Matt dipped his head, a faint smile on his face. “Very romantic of you,” he noted. “To think we’d wind up here anyway. Different paths, same outcome.” The smile on his face sliced a bit sharper. “The Punisher is a romantic at heart.” 

“Let’s just keep that between us, yeah?” 

“Your secret’s safe,” Matt assured him. “So, what happened then?” he prodded gently. 

“Then my family was murdered,” Frank answered bluntly, his thumb running over Matt’s knuckles. “Because of me. And something in me snapped. I just…I lost it. It was like I’d been given a new mission, and I accepted it.” 

“What was that mission?” 

“To kill everyone that was responsible for my family’s death.” Frank swallowed. “That’s how you and I met. You tried to stop me.” 

“I guess I didn’t succeed.” 

Frank chuckled, but the sound was bitter to his ears. “Fuck Matt,” he said. “You had a lot of shit going on then, too. But that’s a different story, and it ain’t mine to tell.” He sighed. “What I’m trying to say is, when we knew each other before, it was a bad time for both of us. We sort of…fell into this, for all the wrong reasons. Everything for me back then was like a red mist. That was all I could see, this red cloud, and vengeance was my only goal. The news reports called me an animal, and they weren’t wrong. The things I’ve done, Matt. It’s not something to be proud of.” 

“You’re not an animal,” Matt told him firmly, his grip on Frank’s hand tightening. “You’re not,” he repeated.

“Maybe not right now,” Frank agreed. “But there’s a darkness in me, and it can come out at any time. I dunno if it was always there or if the war made me that way, but it’s there now and it ain’t goin’ away.” He paused. “When I set out to kill all those people, I never thought about the after. I guess I just assumed there wouldn’t be an after, whether because I’d get killed along the way or…” Frank couldn’t finish that sentence, but he figured Matt understood well enough. “Point is, after wasn’t something I was lookin’ for, wasn’t something I thought I wanted, but it was in front of me all the time. I realized too late that I _had_ an after, that _you_ were my after.” 

“What do you mean you realized too late?” Matt interrupted.

“Lemme finish,” Frank said, talking over the other man. “What we have now? We couldn’t have ever had it before. I never did or said the things I should’ve back then. I didn’t think you wanted that anyway. I didn’t know I wanted it either. But I know what I want now, and I think you do, too. And I know you have…questions. Lots of ‘em, to things I can’t talk about or answer. And you could find those answers yerself, but I’m asking you not to, Matt, ‘cos your life depends on it. Your-actual-fucking-life.” 

Frank paused again. He couldn’t remember talking this much his entire life, or baring his soul so openly to someone else. Matthew-fucking-Murdock. He was a goner all right. Frank reminded himself that the finish line was in sight, and then he’d leave it in Matt’s hands to decide what to do. 

“I love you,” he said, before he lost all nerve. “And I guess what I’m trying to say is can’t this be – what we have,” he clarified. “Can’t this be enough? I know this probably isn’t going to last, but I wanna hold on to it for as long as I can. It’s selfish, I know. And if you want your answers…I get that. I really do. And it’s okay. I’ll figure something out. You can have you answers – ” 

“ – but I can’t have you,” Matt interrupted. “That’s what you’re really saying, isn’t it? It’s one or the other.”

Frank exhaled loudly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “It’s one or the other.” 

“That’s the either-or fallacy, Frank.” 

“Since the third option is letting you die, I don't think it really counts,” Frank retorted. 

Matt chuckled. “It’s a shitty option,” he agreed. Then he was the one running his thumb across Frank’s knuckles. “You’re still holding back,” he said quietly. 

That was true, too. Frank didn’t want to say the words ‘djinn’ or ‘magic’ or ‘spell.’ Maybe he could get away without talking about that shit. It seemed too unbelievable anyway. 

“Batshit crazy, remember?” 

“Nothing I’ve heard tonight sounds batshit,” Matt told him. “Shakespearean tragedy, maybe. But not batshit.” 

“That’s because I haven’t talked about magic…or spells…or genies.” 

“Ah.” 

“You wanna hear that part?” 

“How about a one-sentence summary?” 

“Okay. Remember that accident I said you were in earlier?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, I made a deal with a djinn to save your life.” 

There was a long pause. 

“Riiight.” 

“And that djinn says you’re real close to breaking his spell,” Frank went on. “If you keep going the way you are, it’ll kill you. But if you stopped, we could have this. But if you want your answers, I’d have to give the djinn something else. Another trade.” 

“Not _your_ life,” Matt quickly said, concern etched on his features. 

“No,” Frank said. “Not my life.” The tension in other man eased. “The djinn says that magic is about sacrifice,” Frank continued. “So, I’d have to give up something important.” He looked at the other man. “But I’d do it, Matty, if that’s what you want. You just need to tell me what to do.” 

Matt was shaking his head. “You’re the most self-sacrificing person I know,” he said. He leaned forward suddenly, fingers landing on Frank’s temples. Frank didn’t flinch, although he was surprised by the gesture. Matt began to gently map his face and Frank leaned into the touch. Having someone touch your face like this was surprisingly intimate. He didn’t realize _how_ intimate until the first time Matt had done it. It wasn’t something Matt did often, but Frank welcomed the touch. 

“This isn’t all that hard, Frank. I know what I want,” Matt said softly. “But this should be about what you want as well.”

“And what do you want, Matty?” 

“I want you to take me to bed.” 

Frank didn’t need to be told twice. He scooped Matt into his arms, even though the other man wasn’t exactly light, stood up, and marched them straight into the bedroom.

* * * * *

So it was that they both agreed on option two and Frank felt a secret thrill at spiting the djinn. Maybe it was possible to have that happy ending. Hadn’t they, in their own ways, each earned it? Still, Frank couldn’t shake the deep-seated belief that he’d held for too long – what they had was too good to last; that maybe, after everything Frank had done, he didn’t deserve a happy ending. Violent lives led to violent ends, and domestic bliss with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen might be too much for the universe to handle. But he’d meant what he said to Matt – that he was going to hold on to this as long as he could. And that’s exactly what Frank did.

Matt also did his part to make the deal hold. No more spontaneously stopping arms deals or drug deals or muggings. He also cut back on his training: no more night trips to the roof, less working out at night period. Matt couldn’t give up Fogwell’s though, and Frank wouldn’t have let him anyway. Fogwell’s had been their first date and they continued to go to the gym every Saturday. Those Saturdays belonged to _them_.

This went on for three months. One day Frank realized that they were nearing the eleventh month mark since he’d struck his deal with the djinn. It boggled the mind to think that the deal would hold for a whole year, possibly more. Could the deal really hold for the rest of their lives? Frank still thought about it, although he and Matt never brought it up again. The deal bothered him. A lot. So much so that he ended up seeking Curtis’s advice. One day, over a cup of coffee at a park bench, Curtis asked him: 

“So, am I ever going to meet your man?” 

“Yeah,” Frank quickly said. “Yeah, of course.” 

It came out a little rushed, but he meant it. He just wasn’t sure when, and wasn’t that a little weird? Curtis knew that Frank was in a stable relationship, and had been for a few months. He’d commented on it more than once, noting how Frank had changed. Readjusted, was the word Curtis had used. Frank had ‘readjusted’ to civilian life. That was the goal of all war vets, and Frank was now one of the lucky few to belong to that club. 

“You’re happy, right?” Curtis had asked. 

“Yeah,” Frank had replied. “I’m happy.” 

Curtis had laughed. “A lawyer, Frank,” he’d joked. “Who’d have thought?” 

“He’s not what you’d expect,” Frank had said. 

“No, I imagine he wouldn’t be,” Curtis had agreed. “Not if you ended up with him.” 

Since Curtis was the only person Frank had spoken to about Matt, it was logical that Curtis would be the one he’d turn to for advice. 

“You got a timetable for that?” Curtis was teasing him now. “Or are you just gonna bring him over for Thanksgiving?” 

When Frank didn’t respond, Curtis nudged him with his shoulder. “Frank? Everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” Frank said, automatically. 

Curtis didn’t look convinced. “No trouble in paradise?” 

“It’s not trouble, exactly.” Frank sighed. 

“Spit it out,” Curtis ordered, his tone a mixture of exasperation and fondness. 

And Frank did. He gave Curtis a general outline of his situation with Matt without saying key words like ‘djinn,’ ‘magic’ or Daredevil, which he privately thought was quite a feat.

“So, you don’t think he’s happy?” Curtis said, when Frank was done. 

“It ain’t that simple,” Frank groused. “And Matt would never tell me if he wasn’t happy. He’s in this for the long haul, and so am I.” 

“Then what’s the problem?” 

“The problem…” Frank started, but then stopped. “The problem…” he tried again. 

He couldn’t verbalize ‘the problem,’ but he knew that there was one. He knew because Matt was distant at times, still distracted by voices, cries, and pleas that Frank would never hear. He knew there was a problem because although Matt went about his day, Frank could tell that something was missing. And worse, he knew what that something was, had always _known_ what that something was. Matt was the Devil before Frank met him, and Matt would be the Devil after Frank was gone. _He_ was the one being selfish, keeping that from the other man for the sake of his own happiness, and the guilt was gnawing at him. Matt needed the Devil in a way that Frank no longer needed to be the Punisher. Having an after meant Frank didn’t need that other life, that he could move past it now because he had something else to focus on. But the same just wasn’t true for Matt. Daredevil wasn’t a before and after for him. Matthew Murdock _was_ Daredevil.

There were cases that Matt took on where the legal system, despite Matt’s considerable skill, still failed his clients. Frank thought those were the moments when Matt must’ve felt the loss of the Devil acutely. The Devil could’ve helped those people, whereas Matt Murdock, blind attorney, only had the law. Frank used to think that Murdock had to go through some serious legal gymnastics to justify what he did in his off hours. How could you uphold the law and break the law at the same time? Didn’t that make Murdock some kind of hypocrite? It’s a paradox, as Curtis had told him, when two contrasting ideas that should’ve been opposed to each other could actually co-exist and make sense. Matthew Murdock’s whole life was a paradox, one that he’d struggled to balance time and again, but it was that struggle that gave him purpose and meaning. Now he was only living half a life, and Frank was living that half life with him. 

“I think you already know what to do,” Curtis said into the long silence that had fallen between them. “I think you just needed to talk through it. Get if off your chest. Problems usually work like that. They fix themselves once you have that sounding board.” 

“You sayin’ you solved my problem for me?” 

“No. I’m sayin’ you solved your problem yourself by actually _talking_ about it, instead of just bottling it up inside. That’s what therapy is, Frank,” Curtis corrected. 

“You my therapist now?”

“Free of charge.” Curtis grinned. “So, what? You’ll bring Matt over for Thanksgiving?” 

“Nah,” Frank said, standing up. “Why don’t _you_ come over for Thanksgiving?” 

“You moved in already?” Curtis asked, looking up at the other man. He sounded impressed. 

“With my own toothbrush and everything,” Frank told him. 

Curtis laughed. “All right, Frank,” he said. “Thanksgiving it is. I expect a properly carved turkey,” he added. “With cranberry sauce and all the trimmings.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank gently brushed the request aside. “When did my friends get so pushy?” he asked, but he was grinning too.

* * * * *

“I’m gonna fix this,” Frank announced, the moment he walked in the door later that Sunday afternoon.

Matt was at the breakfast table, surrounded by stacks of folders and his laptop. He was prepping for court the next day. “Fix what?” he asked absently, fingers running over the braille text in front of him. 

Frank placed the bag of groceries on the counter before walking to the other man and dropping a kiss on his head. “This,” he said, gesturing between them as he pulled out a second chair and sat beside Matt. “Us.” 

Matt arched a brow. “Are we broken?” 

“No,” Frank said fondly. “But we could be better. I’m gonna change the terms of the deal.” 

“Frank,” Matt said, gripping Frank’s arm suddenly, his full attention focused on the other man. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“Matty, do you trust me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then you’re not going to lose me.” Frank stood up and went to the counter to unpack the groceries. “I was thinking chicken parmigiana for dinner. That okay with you?” 

“Sounds good,” Matt replied, but Frank could feel the other man’s puzzlement. Matt was still mulling over Frank’s words. “How will you change the deal?” he finally asked. 

When Frank didn’t answer, Matt got up and walked over to him. He put his hand on Frank’s arm again to get his attention. Frank stopped what he was doing and looked at Matt. 

“This,” Matt said. “Is enough. Those were your words,” he reminded Frank. 

“I thought it could be,” Frank agreed. “But I was wrong. You can’t go on like this, with half yerself missing. That ain’t fair, on either of us.” 

Matt shook his head. “It’s a fair trade,” he said stubbornly. “If I get you in exchange.” 

“What if you could have both things?”

“You’d have to give something up, Frank. Something important. Your words,” Matt said again. 

Frank reached over and grasped Matt’s hand, placing it directly over the steady beating of his heart. “You said you trust me,” he told the other man. “I’ve figured out a way to give the djinn what he wants and to get what we want in return. Am I lying?” 

Matt gave him a wry smile. “No,” he replied. “But haven’t you read the stories, Frank? You don’t cheat a djinn. That never ends well.” 

Frank laughed, knowing the vibrations passed through his hand into Matt’s and came out as a pleasant rumble to the other man. “I ain’t gonna cheat the djinn, Red,” he said fondly. “Trust me, I got this.”


	7. Epilogue

Matt shifted, changing the angle so he could hit Frank’s prostrate just right. Frank wasn’t as limber as he was (Matt could easily take Frank on his back, body bent almost double to accommodate the other man), but Matt knew Frank preferred this position so that he could kiss Matt during sex. The missionary position. It made Matt inwardly smile. Frank was surprisingly traditional in bed. By contrast, he was far more adventurous, kinky even (he thought he got that from Elektra) and Frank was always willing to go along with his games. But Matt wasn’t playing. Not tonight. 

Frank motioned him nearer with the wave of a hand and Matt obliged, bracing himself on both arms as he leaned over to kiss the other man. Frank’s hands were roaming his back, mapping the scars that he found there. He pulled Matt closer, so that he supported Matt’s weight, one hand cradling the back of Matt’s neck to hold him in place as he kissed him deeply but languorously. Matt was buried to the hilt in the other man, an exquisite tightness that set his senses aflame. Frank was heat and haze beneath him, sharp breaths and a thudding heart. Matt thought Frank was never more beautiful than when he was like this: laid out and ready for him, body thrumming with desire, the scent of arousal and hot breath. This was the clearest that Matt could ‘see’ Frank as his senses drank the other man in, but he rarely told Frank this. It embarrassed him too much; sweet, gentle Frank who would flush at the slightest compliment. 

“I'm going to finish this, yeah?” Matt said now, kissing along Frank’s jaw. 

“Yeah,” Frank breathed back. “Finish it.” 

One more quick kiss and then Matt was lifting himself off Frank’s body, sitting upright so that his hands fell on Frank’s spread thighs. He’d propped Frank’s hips on a pillow for the other man’s comfort, but to also give him a better grip and an easier angle to work with. Despite his words, Matt started again slowly, rocking into Frank as he held Frank’s thighs open. Frank exhaled with each thrust. It was always easy for them to fall into a rhythm. _A fight or a fuck_ , Matt idly thought, picking up his pace. That was what it had been like at the start, before the djinn, before the deal. That’s what it was still like, except the fighting and the fucking meant different things now. He began moving in earnest, the steady slap of flesh against flesh filled the room, as Frank’s breathing grew harsher to match.

“Can you come on my cock?” Matt asked him. 

“Yes,” was Frank’s strained reply. 

“Then keep your hands on your thighs,” Matt instructed. “Hold yourself open for me.” 

Frank did as he was told, and Matt braced himself over Frank’s body, canting his hips just right. He could hear the blood rushing through the other man’s veins, and the strong, sure beating of his heart. Matt breathed in the other man’s musk and tasted the tang of salt in the air. He was so attuned to every one of Frank’s reactions that he knew the precise moment when Frank would go over the edge. He could’ve pulled him back; he’d done it before – teasing and teasing, withholding until Frank was a begging, incoherent mess – but he wouldn’t do that tonight. So when he heard the muscles twisting in Frank’s lower back, the shift of bones that preceded the moment Frank would arch off the bed, Matt held his position, balls deep as Frank came on his cock. He waited as Frank’s orgasm washed through him before he began moving again. Frank was oversensitive now to Matt’s touch, but he gamely continued to hold himself open even as his limbs grew heavy from the post-coital haze. 

“I’m close,” Matt told him.

“Take your time,” Frank replied. 

Matt laughed at that, breathed into Frank’s mouth as he kissed him. He only needed a few more thrusts before Frank was swallowing the cry of his release with his mouth. That kiss turned slow and leisurely, the sort of post-coital kiss that Frank always looked for and enjoyed the most. 

It was Frank who flipped them onto their sides after Matt pulled out. And it was Matt who reached behind him for the damp washcloth that he’d left on the bedside table. He cleaned them up, while Frank tried to distract him with more kisses. And when he was done, he basked in Frank’s embrace, head tucked under Frank’s chin.

It was their five-year anniversary; five years since Frank had re-negotiated his deal with the djinn and everything had changed. Matt still recalled the moment his memories had been restored. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before and since. The sudden rush of memories had been overwhelming, images flickering through his mind too quickly to grasp but familiar all the same. It had resulted in a migraine that had incapacitated him for what felt like hours until he finally passed out. When he came to, sprawled on the floor of his living room, the first thought that entered his mind was, ‘Frank.’ Matt got to his feet, hand against a wall for support as he steadied himself. The first thing he intended to do was go out and look for Frank, because God-only-knew what Frank must’ve given up so that Matt could have his memories back. 

“Dammit, Frank,” he muttered, pushing himself off the wall. He only took one step before he stopped, his hearing picking up a familiar gait on the sidewalk outside. That gait entered the building and then was climbing the stairs – two at a time – until it reached Matt’s floor. Matt strode quickly across the living room, down the entrance hall, and yanked open the front door before Frank could even pull out his key. 

“Frank,” he said, relief washing over him as he pulled the other man into a hug. 

Frank’s surprise morphed into understanding as he returned Matt’s hug, kissing the side of his face. “Told you, you wouldn’t lose me,” he chided softly. 

“But how?” Matt asked, voice muffled by Frank’s coat. 

“Later,” Frank told him, walking Matt back into the apartment and kicking the door shut. Then he had Matt up against the wall and was kissing him for all he was worth. 

“Later,” Matt agreed between those breathless kisses. 

They never made it to the bedroom.

* * * * *

The irony of the situation was that Frank couldn’t tell Matt what he’d sacrificed to the djinn because, of course, he couldn’t remember. But it didn’t take long for Matt to figure it out and when he learned what it was, he was staggered by the knowledge. He would never, _ever_ have let Frank sacrifice that if he’d known, which is probably why Frank had never told him. _Could he live with this?_ Matt used to wonder. Would the guilt gnaw at him too, the way it had gnawed at Frank until Frank had to do something? _But not this_ , Matt had silently cried. Why had Frank done this?

Because what Frank had given the djinn were the memories of his family – not his life as a marine, but Maria and his kids – and consequently, his life as the Punisher. It would take years for Matt to understand the significance of it all. He was thankful that he was Frank’s ‘after,’ but that shouldn’t have come at the expense of Frank’s marriage and a life that he had loved, a life that he would’ve willingly died for. But Matt also came to understand that the Frank he had now was the one that Maria must have fallen in love with. This was Frank without vengeance and bitterness and rage…without the Punisher…and wasn’t that a good thing? Frank’s war experiences had changed him, had molded him into an efficient killing machine, but they hadn’t pushed him over the edge. No, it was his family’s cold-blooded murder that had done that. Vengeance as his sole motivation was the only Frank Matt had known, one of the foundations of their first relationship, as fucked up as that had been. Once you took that vengeance away, there wasn’t any need for the Punisher. (Because Frank only _became_ the Punisher. That wasn’t the same thing as Matt _being_ Daredevil.)

Now Matt knew a different Frank, but at his core, Frank was still the same person. It was hard to explain, but he tried to…sometimes…to Frank. Frank just told him that he got what he wanted: They were meeting again, but differently this time, and they would wind up in the same place anyway. (Because Frank was such an irrepressible romantic that it made Matt smile.) And Matt thought, _Yes, he could live with that._

At first, they fought about Matt’s nightly patrols. It’s not that Frank objected to Matt taking up the Daredevil mantle again (because that would’ve defeated the point), but he objected to Matt not _allowing_ him to join Matt on said patrols. 

“Dammit, Frank!” Matt had yelled. “This is what got us into trouble before! Me, going out and doing stuff I shouldn’t!” 

“It’s not the same thing,” Frank had insisted. “It’s not.” 

Of course, Frank couldn’t explain why not because he couldn’t remember, but it turned out he was right. Why? Matt figured out later that it had to do with motivation. Frank wanted to join him, not as the Punisher, but because he wanted to keep Matt safe, to be his back up, to be a brother-in-arms. Frank hadn’t given up his military training, and the marines were in his blood. Matt was his brother, lover and partner in all things. _Of course_ , he would join him. And so, he did.

Frank gave up the skull logo (he wouldn’t have thought to wear it in the first place), and eventually shed the name of Punisher too (it was the media that was hard pressed to let that name go). Now he just wore plain, black gear and armor, still looking a lot like the black ops agent that he once had been. Frank had opened up a lot more about his experiences in Afghanistan, finding not judgment, but patience and understanding in Matt. This, Matt had thought, was perhaps the one thing Frank had never been able to share with Maria, and he was glad that he could be there for Frank. 

“The djinn got it wrong,” Matt murmured now before sleep overtook him. 

“What’s that?” Frank asked. 

“This is a happy ending.” 

Frank hummed thoughtfully. “Not so sure,” he said. 

Matt laughed against the other man’s chest. “Are you saying you can do better than this?” he teased. 

“Not what I mean, Red,” Frank replied. “You and me? It ain’t about the happy endings. It’s about being whole.” 

Matt lifted his head. “Jesus, Frank. I think that was an honest-to-God _Jerry Maguire_ moment.” 

Frank shrugged, shifting so that he could pull Matt closer. “Doesn’t make the sentiment any less true,” he said, before kissing the other man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Thank you all for reading! :D 
> 
> I'd love to write more about these two, but currently don't have any ideas. If there's something you'd like to share, leave it in a comment below or drop it in my Ask Box at morrow-dim.tumblr.com. Every bit of inspiration helps!
> 
> I almost forgot, but the title of the fic comes from Morcheeba and their 2005 album _The Antidote_. The song really has nothing to do with the fic (as if Frank or Matt would ever listen to Morcheeba!), other than its upbeat nature is how I knew this fic wouldn't end in tragedy. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Marvel and Netflix. No offense is intended; no profit is being made.


End file.
